


No Rest for the Wicked

by MezzaMorta



Series: Quartet [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bickering, Companionable Snark, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, John is Not Amused, M/M, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Mycroft IS the British Government, Polyamory, Roleplay, Sexual Humor, Sherlock is a Brat, Spanking, Top Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-08-23 08:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16615127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MezzaMorta/pseuds/MezzaMorta
Summary: Greg wants to take the boys on holiday. The man's an optimist, you have to give him that.





	1. The Bad News

**Author's Note:**

> So... I've started this. The intro. I hope you want to know more!

A surprise announcement had been made at 221B.

Surprise announcements were generally welcomed at this address. But this was one was not going down particularly well in certain quarters. 

"I don't want to!" exclaimed Sherlock, horrified by Lestrade's latest untoward suggestion.

Mycroft wasn't exactly thrilled either. But at a frown from a rather crestfellen Gregory, he coughed politely and attempted to calm his bristling brother.

"Hmm. Well, I'm sure it won't be all that bad, Lock..."

Sherlock could not believe what he was hearing.

"It will, Mycroft! It  _will_ be that bad. It will be the most boring holiday since Napoleon was exiled to Elba!"

Greg glared, greatly offended that his nice thoughtful gesture was being met with such hostility. 

"It's a jaunt to the countryside, not a life sentence, thank you." 

Some people had no gratitude, he reflected. Well, some people did. Why was Sherlock Holmes never one of them?

"Don't want to go on stupid holiday!" 

John tutted at his petulant flatmate with his usual casual disapproval. 

"You were saying only last week that you wanted a break from routine. Fickle little sod."

Sherlock rounded on him with great indignation. 

"I  _wanted_ to go to Transylvania! Greg promised after the last time we had to cancel, and he's welshed on it again!" 

All six feet of his lanky form flopped onto the sofa in high dudgeon. He pointedly looked in the opposite direction from the man who had stoked his ire with this careless organisation of an unwanted holiday. 

Greg looked at John in mute appeal for some kind of backing.

John gave him his 'I know, mate, I know' look, and carried on sipping his tea. 

Greg was tempted to just throw the towel in and cancel the whole endeavour. But he was not a man easily brow-beaten into cancelling well-laid plans just because a brat threw a tantrum. 

"Tough," he said to the fuming detective. "None of us have got the time for longer than a Bank Holiday weekend. It's not fair to ask John's Mum to look after Rosie for longer than a few days. Anyway, I'm not schlepping all the way to Romania just for a whistle-stop tour of Dracula tourist traps."

Sherlock stamped his foot in outrage at the very idea he'd be so predictable.

"I didn't want to go there for Dracula! I wanted to go to the salt mines! And for the wolves. There'd be wolves, Greg," he whined, mournful at the very idea of all those lovely dangerous wolves prowling around in the evergreen forests of Eastern Europe, all unlooked at and unappreciated.

Mycroft made a rather insulting noise.  
  
"Wolves indeed! Don't let him hoodwink you, Gregory. He wants to go to Transylvania for a case. There's been a spate of decapitations. Lots of local dentists being found unaccountably headless." 

Sherlock scowled as his true motivations were laid bare by his awful omniscient brother.

Mycroft gave him a smug look, content as ever to be the one to thwart the completely unnecessary and extremely immature pursuit of a mystery with zero relevance to the national interest.

John snorted at the silent stare-out between Holmeses.

"Decapitated dentists? It'll be Dracula related, that," he said, nonchalantly. "Everything is over there."

Apparently this was the wrong response.  

"It isn't, John, don't be stupid! It's a toothless villain with a grudge."

Sherlock pouted with great certainty. He'd invested hours of online research. He had a fully constructed map of crime scenes laid out and ready to go as soon as the plane landed at Bucharest.

All for nothing now, it seemed. 

"Oh, that's a less stupid theory than mine, is it?" quibbled John, turning on an increasingly unbearable Lock. "And don't call me stupid when we're about to go on a nice holiday!" 

"Fine, I'll save it for work time. Stupid..."

John kicked at his partner's shin but squeaked when he missed and spilled hot tea over his own leg.

Sherlock grinned sarcastically at him. 

"Enjoy your third degree burn, Watson!" 

"Bugger off, Holmes!" 

Mycroft looked at the ceiling, waiting for responsible adults to once again commandeer the conversation.

Greg boldly took up the mantle.

"Stop being a pain, Lock! Just bloody lump it. We're having a nice little break because I say so. You'll enjoy it when we get there."

"But I hate non-London places!"

The tone was definitely shifting towards whinge territory.

"You've hardly been to any," said John, witheringly.  

"For good reason. I hate them," insisted Sherlock, eyes narrowing. "They're tedious and full of idiots. And there's no phone signal, and no internet!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock, my dear, sweet, naive boy. The country does manage some kind of infrastructure outside of the capital city. It's not the 1830s. There's phone signal and broadband. In places as far flung as Surrey these days, I hear."

He smirked at Gregory, who gave him a chuckle for his trouble.

Sherlock scowled at being tolerantly mocked, though he tilted his head at the news of such technological advancement in the Home Counties.

"Hm. Fine. Well, I'll deign to leave the city if I can get online."

Greg cleared his throat, steeling himself to deliver another potentially unwelcome surprise.

"Well, no. You won't have access to phone or broadband. Cos I'm banning both. Digital detox."

Three pairs of shocked eyes - hazel, blue and grey - stared at him aghast. 

"What?!" shrieked Sherlock, lost for words in the face of such wilful barbarism.

"Yes, what?" said Mycroft, hoarsely, looking rather pale.

Greg shook his head firmly.

"No arguments. Technology is banned. Fed up of things bleeping at me and you always distracted. There's an amnesty. You're handing over your devices before we leave."

"Really, Gregory, that's a little stringent...," protested Mycroft, automatically plotting ways around the prohibition. 

Greg knew him too well to fail to see the calculating glint in the elder Holmes's eye. "I can be even more stringent if you force me to," he warned with dark foreboding. "So don't push it."

Mycroft gulped a little. 

"Um."

"Yeah. Um."

Mycroft turned to his other lover, hoping to start some kind of peaceful protest movement. "John, dear..."

John chuckled. 

"Oh, no getting round me, mate. I think I'm with Lestrade on this one, actually. Bit of peace and quiet, back to nature. Think it'd be nice. A proper break. You're out-voted."

Sherlock could not let this appalling mathematical error stand. 

"Humph! Not out voted! It's two-all. Sensible clever Holmeses versus..." 

He trailed off at the dangerous glares being cast at him by two very irked lovers. 

"Versus who...?" said Greg, quietly.

John was opened mouthed with disbelief and looked very much like he was about to launch himself at Sherlock and wrestle an apology out of him.

"Whom," corrected Mycroft, absently. "Whom is the correct..."

He winced as Gregory took a tiny, terrifying step forward.

"Sorry, darling. You know I can't help it."

Greg nodded as his most pedantic boyfriend politely backed down.

"Oh, for goodness sake," huffed Sherlock, "Don't get tetchy, Lestrade, just because we're not keen on your stupid idea. Mycroft and I don't want to leave London, nor do we wish to sojourn in the Dark Ages. The matter is closed."

He waved an airy hand. 

Greg felt his hand itching to grab hold of the lad's ear, but he restrained himself. A more cunning tactic was required. Divide and conquer. 

"So... Mycie, doll. Don't fancy a break at all? With me. And John. And Lock. Somewhere nice and secluded. A few days with nothing to do except... Stuff." He waggled a suggestive eyebrow.

"Well... Is it necessary to slum it in the outback?" ventured the elder Holmes, trying to find some kind of compromise which would satisfy all of his demanding lovers. "I could book us into a very nice spa hotel in..."

"It's Dorset, love. Not the wilderness. Nice guesthouse all to ourselves, little village, hilltop walks, bit of unspoilt seaside."

Mycroft looked doubtful. "It sounds charming. But insecure."

"Which is why I'm telling you about it now. So you can do a sweep and install whatever you need to install ahead of time."

"I certainly will. Seems a dreadful waste of time for three days."

"Oh, for God's sake, I'll go on my bloody own!" burst Greg, fed up to the back teeth with holiday saboteurs. "I only wanted a few days downtime on Bank Holiday, like any normal bloke!"

John stepped up. "I'll come with you, love. I could do with a bit of time out. Leave these two here."

Greg scoffed with sarcasm. 

"Oh, yeah, and come back to God knows what." 

"They're big boys. Can look after yourselves, can't you?" he said, turning to the insulted-looking Holmes brothers. "Me and Greg'll have a nice romantic weekend for two." 

Mycroft blinked. "Oh."

"So selfish!" stormed Sherlock, compelled by outrage. "You  _can't_ leave me here! Who'll do my ironing?!"

John barked a dry laugh as the phrase 'make your bloody mind up' floated across his mind. "Cheeky sod. That's sealed it - we're definitely going on our own now."

"I suppose I could do with a few days respite," conceded Mycroft, before the opportunity passed him by. "And it would be rather..."

"Romantic, doll. That was the general idea."

Mycroft blushed a little. "Yes. Of course. I'm sorry, Gregory, I didn't... If you'll have me, I'd be delighted to go on a 'mini-break'..."

"I'll have you, darlin'," grinned Greg, showing his canines. "Good. But if you're coming, so's baby brother."

Sherlock gasped at the betrayal.

"You just said I could stay in London!"

"With Mycie's supervision I might have considered it," scoffed Greg, knowing he'd never agree to any such thing, not yet being completely insane. "Not leaving you to your own devices. I'm not that much of a mug. You're coming, tough."

Lock stamped his foot and wailed. "You can't force me to go on holiday!"  

Greg merely chuckled.

"What's the betting I can?"

"Rather high odds in your favour, dear," intervened Mycroft. "Oh, come along, brother. Being taken on holiday is generally considered a treat."

Lock tossed his head.

"I'm not _being_ taken on holiday, I'm being taken hostage!"

"Yeah, tied up in the bloody car boot if you don't shut it," muttered John, darkly.

Sherlock scoffed, though he had the wherewithal to realise he was rather pushing his luck with John today. "Mean. Anyway, what car? You don't have a car. This is London, no-one actually has a car."

"I have a car,” said Mycroft, with a supercilious air Greg didn’t quite care for. “Well, the Government has a car. I'll arrange a driver."

Greg folded his arms in a way that brooked no further debate.

"Nah, fancy driving down myself."

Mycroft looked askance.

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'll hire a car."

"Hire a big car, then,” interrupted John, wagging a thumb at Sherlock. “I'm not having him kicking the back of my seat for five hours."

Sherlock had not thought his incredulity could climb any higher during this abominable conversation. But it did.

"What makes you think _I'm_ sitting in the back?! People with long legs go in the front. You sit in the back, Watson."

John pointed his finger, twitching with irritation and wounded pride. 

"Oi, watch it, dickhead!" 

Sherlock stepped in, spoiling for a fight.

"Shan't watch it at all. If you make me sit in the back I will _kick_. I'll kick very hard. And I might be sick. And I'll scream all the way there!"

John took a step closer. Greg and Mycroft moved subtly into position, one behind each of their partners, ready to make a grab should they be unable to resist the ‘let’s see who can get out of a headlock quickest’ game.

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm warning you now,” said John in a voice quivering with fury, “if you kick the back of my seat even once, you'll be sitting very bloody uncomfortably for five hours."

Greg had had enough.

"Pack it in, the pair of you! We're leaving on Friday and I don't want to discuss it anymore! Not car seating arrangements, not whether there's a telly - there isn't - or anything else! We're all going on a nice bloody holiday, and that's the end of it, so just shut it, yeah?!

They looked round guiltily. Greg wasn’t just pissed off. He was a bit upset.

Feet shuffled and throats were cleared.

"Yeah,” said John, sheepishly. “All right. Sorry, love."

"Apologies, my darling,” said Mycroft, soothingly. He reached out to pat his lover’s hand. “Of course we shall go, and gladly too. I'm sure it will be very relaxing." 

Sherlock regarded them all as if they had sprouted horns.

"Hmph!" he said with feeling. And he meant it.

Greg gave him a narrow, suspicious look. Even by his usual standards, Lock was behaving rather childishly over this one. He'd have to be kept on watch.

Sherlock glared in return, then smiled his fakest Cheshire Cat smile and turned away in a huff.

_Holiday... I'll show them a bloody holiday._


	2. Are we nearly there yet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Various nightmare scenarios such as packing, driving, and arriving. 
> 
> Sherlock makes one horrific discovery too many, and begins to enact his revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual heartfelt apologies for the delay. Work has finally settled down and I am back on the writing wagon. Love you for reading, you know that, don't you? xxx

When Friday rolled around Sherlock was in an even more foul mood than he had been at the dreaded announcement. Greg was seriously questioning his judgement in insisting on this trip, but he’d already put the deposit on the cottage, so it was a done deal. Greg Lestrade was not a man to throw honest cash down the drain, no matter how profligate Holmeses were about such things. So he found himself standing in 221b, steeling himself to not shout ‘OK, you win!’

Packing was happening.

Packing was life-ruining stuff at this address.

Departure itself was threatening to become an as-yet undiscovered circle of hell.

Sherlock's suitcase was empty. John's wouldn't close. Mycroft hadn’t even arrived yet - still neatly folding things somewhere in Hampstead.

Greg checked his watch and growled. His own case was packed minimalistically, and had been since last night. No point overdoing it for a long weekend. He had a pair of jeans, a warm jumper, a flannel shirt, two pairs of undies, his bathroom stuff and loads of lube. What else did a bloke need?

Paracetamol, perhaps, to clear the nascent migraine tingling about his temples. Bickering was happening in John’s room. In truth, it hadn’t stopped all week, and it had been happening everywhere. Greg sat in the front room, head sunk into his hands, trying desperately to stop the vein in his forehead from twitching.

"Why can't Rosie come with us?!" Sherlock was demanding, picking another gripe to needle his flatmate about.

"Cos me Mum wants some Nana time, and I'm bloody shattered! She's teething! Haven't told Mum about that yet, actually...," said John, wondering if he ought to feel slightly more guilty than he did. But chronically knackered Dads couldn’t be too ethically scrupulous. Rosie Watson was in her least considerate phase of infancy. The last few teeth were emerging, and she was determined that everyone should share in her discomfort.

Sherlock huffed and flopped onto the bed, shoving John’s full suitcase onto the floor in disgust.

John gave him a killing look and decided to attempt not rising to the bait. He shoved it back on the bed and bundled an armful more of ‘just in case’ clothes into it. Army doctors were prepared for any and all weather conditions. Though, he admitted even to himself, things were probably getting a bit ridiculous now.

“You’re not bringing that revolting jumper, John!”

Sherlock's face was a mask of revulsion which John took profound offence to.

“What’s wrong with it?!”

“It’s the colour of bile!”

“It’s mustard!”

“Ugh! Do you imagine that saves it from being a sartorial car crash? I’d rather eat that jumper than see you wear it ever again.”

“You’ll have to when I ram it down your throat!”

The squabbling pair looked up sharply as the bedroom door was flung open to reveal a thunderous Greg.

John removed his hand from his lover’s waistband, where he was attempting to wedgie him into submission. Lock stopped biting John’s shoulder as hard has he could, and settled for a good scowl instead.

Greg fumed at them.

“Pack it in, bloody hell! And I mean that literally - Lock, get your case done. You’ve got ten minutes or I’m smacking your arse. John, calm it down. I’m the only one making threats today, right? And where the bloody hell is Mycroft?!”

“I am here, Gregory.”

Greg jumped a foot in the air, and was irritated though unsurprised to hear John and Sherlock giggling at his expense. He turned to see a bemused (and secretly rather amused) elder Holmes.

“Jesus fuck, love! Don’t do that! Sneaking up on a copper’s a crime, you know. How do you move without making a sound?! It’s eerie.”

Greg held his hand to his racing heart.

Mycroft smirked as much as he dared and placed his hand on top of his lover’s.

“Vampire blood in the Holmes family, dear. I am sorry if I startled you.” He broke off with a quizzical frown. “I seem to have interrupted some kind of pantomime here.”

John and Lock scowled doubly now and looked ready to draw both of their lovers into a full four-way combat scenario.

Greg quickly resumed command of the situation before someone’s suitcase ended up flung out of the window. Again.

“Lock, get in your room and pack like a normal person – I know you’re not, but just pretend, love, OK? For me? A tiny bit? John, you don’t need a bloody skiing jacket for two days in Dorset. Have a word with yourself, mate. And you, Mycie, get in the other room and put the kettle on. Where have you been anyway?!” he said, almost all in one breath and ushered Mycroft out of the room.

Mycroft coughed a little sheepishly.

 “Erm… I was packing, as I explained.”

“Oh yeah?” said Greg, knowingly. “How many times?”

Mycroft straightened his posture and adopted his most frosty demeanour.

“I don’t know what you mean. There’s a certain order to things which must be…”

Greg sighed. Now he’d put his foot in it, and he couldn’t afford to have another one of his lovers pissed off with him. He stepped in for a hug, and was relieved to feel Mycroft’s arms settle around him.

Greg patted him reassuringly.

“Sorry, darl. I know, I know. Everything in its place, yeah? I’m just…”

Mycroft looked down at him sceptically.

“Highly irritatable?”

Greg pecked his lover’s long nose.

“Yep,” Greg sighed. “Getting edgy about traffic. Your thing is neat packing, mine is avoiding rush hour. And worrying about being on time to pick up keys…”

He frowned at the thought, and Mycroft decided to be helpful instead of reproachful.

“Yes, dear. I quite understand.”

He strode back into John’s room with determination.

Greg slumped onto the sofa and heard him remonstrating with the inhabitants.

“Lock, hurry along! Stop hounding John. Gregory is suffering.”

“ _He’s_ suffering?!” came the incredulous shriek of a disgruntled brat.

“Lock!”

“Oh, all _right!_ ”

Greg heard Sherlock storming out and into his own room. The slam of the door rattled his brain. He took the paracetamol. He’d need them to survive the drive. The five hour drive.

When they were finally, finally packed, after only one more tantrum – this one a surprise from John, who had insisted it was only sensible to bring a pair of slippers in case of splinters in the wooden floorboards at the cottage - the simple matter of getting in the car was the next unreasonably-sized obstacle to a relaxing Bank Holiday.

"No dawdling!” called Greg, chivvying them all along as they spilled out of 221b.

Mrs Hudson had wisely made herself scarce, knowing better than to be roped in. It was bad enough being mistaken for a housekeeper. She was damned if baggage handler was going to be added to the list of Menial Jobs Mrs Hudson Will Do If You Whine Loudly Enough.

"Bagsy front seat!" yelled Sherlock, racing for the silver saloon car Greg had hired and parked up the road.

"No chance! I'm going in the front," said John, jostling for position, preparing to throw his suitcase at Lock’s head if need be.

"No, John!”

Another tussle ensued on the kerbside.

Sherlock, realising he was not going to come out of this well, switched strategies. He pouted.

“Please?! It's too cramped for me. I get achy. Long legs. It’s just a fact!"

John looked deeply suspicious. They glared at each other, forehead to forehead.

Greg broke the impasse.

"John, mate, better put him where I can keep an eye on him. No chance of him kicking the seat then, is there?"

John had to admit that one, though he did it under protest. 

"Fine. This once. Spoiled little git… But if he behaves like a lout on the M25, we’re swapping. Or tying him to the bumper and dragging him all the way..."

Greg opened the boot and John placed his case in, then hopped into the back seat on the passenger side. Just in case he needed to kick Sherlock’s seat for any reason…

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Honestly, you’re both as bad as each other.”

Sherlock gasped in outrage until his brother issued the appropriate correction.

“Sorry, darling. I didn’t mean that. You’re the worst, obviously.”

“Thank you!”

“Everyone with the surname Holmes get in the ruddy car!”

“No need to raise your voice, Gregory. I'll go in the back without argument, my dear," said Mycroft, intent on modelling reasonableness for his wayward little brother.

Sherlock snorted.

"Used to that, aren't you? Always being driven around in the back. Like the Queen."

"Oh, do shut up!” snapped Mycroft, despairingly. “You're the one being a royal pain in the backside today."

"Oh, haha, how corset-splittingly hilarious, brother mine. And don't say 'I'll give you a royal pain in the backside', Lestrade, it's not clever or funny!"

Greg shrugged.

"No pleasing some people. Get in before one of us dies!"

Lock humphed and threw himself into the front passenger seat.

John tutted as he did up the seat belt. 

"Are you regressing or what, Sherlock? You've had an absolute cob on all week." 

Sherlock was nonplussed.

"What does that mean? That’s not a word. I don't even know what that means!"

"Ignoramus,” muttered Mycroft. He knew full well he oughtn’t be provoking but he was somehow unable to stop himself now Lock was so utterly given over to immaturity.

" _You_ are!"

"Ouch!" exclaimed the elder Holmes as vicious violinist’s fingers reached round to pinch at his thigh.

The fight was ended before it began by a deafening noise.

Three men clamped their hands over their ears and winced.

Satisfied that he’d made his point, Greg stopped pressing the car horn. He also manfully ignored the assorted giggles when he put his driving glasses on.

“Oi, don’t take the piss!” he complained in vain. “It’s either these or crashing into a tractor.”

“Tractor, please,” said the exact voice Greg had expected to hear saying that.

“I think you look very handsome, dear. Very distinguished.”

John snorted. “Ha! Distinguished just means old! Driving glasses, mate. It’s all over, isn’t it?”

He considered himself lucky to be out of reach of the almighty clip round the head Greg was trying to give him across the distance.

Greg gave up. He checked Sherlock’s seatbelt with his own hands just to be sure he was as fully restrained as possible, and drove off as quickly as London traffic would allow – which is to say, very slowly indeed.

The miles ticked by with excruciating languor. 

At first Sherlock was mercifully distracted by his headphones. He claimed to be listening to recorded witness statements, but Mycroft knew for a fact it was a Paddington Bear audiobook.

John had some ghastly rock band playing on his own device – the tinny guitars were just audible over the engine on the motorway.

Mycroft was content to enjoy the scenery, reciting Blake in his head as soon as they emerged from the city and into green-brown fields and farmland. England was rather nice when viewed at a distance and from the safety of a moving vehicle, he thought.

An hour in, Trouble began. Greg considered himself lucky to have gotten even that far without an explosion or a sabotaged engine.

"Need to stop.”

"Not yet, Lock."

"Need the loo."

"Why didn't you go before we left, for God’s sake?"

"I did, Greg! But that was literally _days_ ago. And John made me a second cup of tea. It's John's fault!"

They stopped at a service station, and all were grateful of the chance to stretch their legs. And stock up on Jelly Babies.

That was a mistake.

“Mycroft, stop hogging the Babies!”

“I am not hogging them, I am merely taking one, _one,_ from the bag!”

“Not the orange one! The orange ones are all mine!”

“Stop pinching me, you little sugar fiend!”

“Give them here, you two are banned from Jelly Babies.”

“Shut up, Watson, you can’t ban me! No…give them to me!”

“No, bugger off, or the packet will…!”

“Whoops!”

“Erm… Gregory, there’s rather a lot of icing sugar and squashed confectionary back here…”

Greg gritted his teeth and kept his focus on the motorway. It was either that or killing them all, and he’d give it another half hour before deciding.

Half an hour later, however, there was a distinct sense of déjà vu. 

"Need to stop."

"You can't need another piss!"

"Gonna be sick."

"No, you're not."

"Am. Jelly Babies."

"Oh, dear God, stop the car, Gregory!"

The car was duly stopped in a layby. Sherlock got out with great poise to be beautifully and dramatically sick into the bushes. In rainbow colours.

He bounced back to his seat as though nothing had happened.

“That’s better. Can I have some more Babies? Hungry now. I don’t mind Floor Babies.”

“Oh, dear Lord, brother mine…”

“You’re a monster, Sherlock Holmes,” said John, admiringly.

“Thanks,” sniffed Sherlock. “I wondered when you were going to start being nice to me again.”

At hour four Greg had to stop for coffee and more painkillers. When he returned to the car it was clear that whatever patience Lock had been conjuring from the very depths of his soul had well and truly run out. And to make matters worse, he was on a sugar crash.

“Where _is_ Dorset, anyway?! How can a county in England be SO far from London?! This country is tiny, relatively speaking. I don’t believe we’re even going the right way. This is literally nowhere. Lestrade is lost and I am hungry, and I am NOT eating a service station pie like Watson!”

“No, well, I’m with you on the pie, darling,” said Mycroft, with a small shudder.

“Nothing wrong with a service station pie!” spluttered John, though a mouthful of pastry.

Sherlock mimed another vomit, rather well and vividly.

“Revolting! I’m not kissing you until I’ve swabbed your mouth and proven you’re not carrying some ghastly disease.”

“Who said you’re getting kissed this side of Christmas?!”

“Mycie, tell John to go and boil his head!”

But Mycroft didn’t have the chance to. Greg was once again bearing down on the assembled party of irritable travellers.

“Oh my God, you are not still fighting?! In a service station car park off a motorway slip road?! Pull yourselves together!”

Lock whinged and kicked the car tyre at being told off yet again. It wasn’t fair. Watson and his pie - and the stupid size of Britain - were the problems here.

He opened his mouth to deliver some glorious backchat and was cut off by an iron grip on his upper arm.

“Right. You’re insufferable today and I can’t take it,” growled Greg. “Anymore nonsense and I’m putting you over my knee and making you ride the rest of the way in the back with a sore arse you’ll feel for the whole weekend!”

Sherlock tried to twist away and succeeded only getting himself more restrained.

“No, Greg!”

“Yes!”

Lock huffed and let himself be manhandled back into the car. Peace reigned for all of ten miles, as they finally hit country B-roads. Rather bumpy, winding ones.

“Gregory,” came a rather hollow-sounding voice from the behind the driver. “I’m not feeling terribly, erm… Inner ear problem… Rather dizzy, actually…”

“Uh-oh, Mycie motion sickness!”

“Oh shit, pull over Greg. He’s gonna puke,” said the medic with all the knowledge his vast experience afforded him.

“I’m not,” protested the wretched and retching British Government. “It’s just… Back seat travelling…”

Greg swerved into the nearest layby, and found it led to a more secluded woodland side road. He manoeuvred the car out of sight just in time, knowing that the British Government would not wish to be seen in such a state by the general populace. Not that there seemed to be any of them out here.

Mycroft, pale and clammy as death, exited the car at speed and gasped in fresh air, summoning all of his considerable mental powers to overcome his traitorous body. He triumphed over himself, simply refusing to be the second vomiting Holmes in one day. If Sherlock hadn’t already upstaged him so spectacularly he might have allowed it. But there was no chance he could beat that, so he withdrew entirely from competition.

John got out and helped him to sip bottled water in small swallows. Crisis averted.

“Swap seats with your brother,” Greg ordered Lock. “He can’t stay in the back.”

Lock glared at his brother malevolently, all sympathy gone now he was being inconvenienced. Mycroft had let him down by not being sick even a tiny bit. Mycroft was a paragon of self-control and good behaviour. On holiday too. It was all very disappointing.

“Attention-seeker,” he huffed. “Spoilsport!” He yanked off his seat belt and did a highly unnecessary drop and roll out of the car door.

Mycroft stepped over him and got in the front without a word.

But Greg had had enough theatrics for one day.

“Lock! Come here.”

He got out of the car and rounded the vehicle, preparing to chase down his quarry if it bolted.

John whistled casually from the backseat, wishing he had popcorn.

Sherlock, out of self-preservation and mindful of the journey ahead, had decided not to run, remembering how such things usually ended up: sore. He blinked with his best sorry doe-eyes as Greg approached.

Greg was immune to pretty entreaties. He simply took hold of the lanky detective’s ear – he found that when he pulled the ear, Lock tended to come with it.

“Ow!”

John wound down his window. “Finally!” he called in relief. “Smack his arse, Greg, I’ve had enough of him today.”

“Yeah. Think I’m going to change tactics actually,” said Greg, looking round with caution. “Nothing much on the roads, is there?”

Mycroft swept the area with narrowed eyes. No speed cameras, no CCTV out here. He frowned at the lack of coverage, but upon reflection decided that perhaps rural England could be left out of the view of Big Brother after all. Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand...

“John, dear, you might wish to sit up front for this…,” he offered magnanimously. John nodded and casually got out of the car to sit in the driver’s seat alongside the elder Holmes. They had both seen the glint in Lestrade’s eye. It was always worth paying attention to that glint.

Greg turned his glint to a worried-looking Sherlock, whose face twisted into confusion. He deduced in the deep brown eyes…something quite unexpected, and frowned at the expression. Half-stern, half-benevolent.

Greg gently stroked his lover’s high cheek.

“Over the bonnet with you.”

Lock tilted his head in silent enquiry, still not 100% sure he wasn't going to be walloped bandy.

But instead of glowering at him, Greg was smiling understandingly.

“Bit high-strung today, aren’t you? Let’s see if I can’t relax you into a nice floppy state, eh?”

Lock smiled beatifically as realisation dawned. Goody. A treat, not a sore bum after all.

“Then you can be a good lad for me for the next hour,” said Greg, raising a warning finger. He knew at this stage there was more mileage (literally given the distance they still had to cover) in making Lock compliant rather than walloping good behaviour out of him. Besides, the lad was struggling with the journey a bit and hadn’t done too badly all things considered. The noise of the motorway would have gotten to him, and being out of London always ruffled him a little.

Sherlock whinged and shuffled his feet.

“A whole hour?!”                                                              

“Yep.”

The detective sighed a put-upon sigh and placed his palms flat on the car bonnet.

“OK. You can relax me.” He turned and looked coquettishly over his shoulder, hair flopping into his face in just the way he knew Greg found utterly irresistible.

Greg winked.

“See if you can splatter the windscreen, eh? We can put the wipers on after.”

“I want to press the switch!”

The spectators inside the car couldn’t believe what they were witnessing and gawped through the windscreen at a now very smug Lock.

“Really, Gregory, he doesn’t deserve it,” said Mycroft, voice a muffled from within the vehicle. "He's been terribly naughty all day."

Greg shrugged a little guiltily from behind the younger Holmes, who was happily wiggling his bum from side to side and making insulting faces at his brother and flatmate.

“I know, doll. But it’s self-preservation. Plus…he always sort of deserves it, doesn’t he?”

Mycroft sat back with a haughty sniff.

“Yes, well, you are preaching to the choir on that score.”

“Deserves it?!” spluttered John. “He had one before we left, Greg. I haven’t had one since last night!”

“You could have if you hadn’t been too busy packing to climb Mount Everest. Have one now,” suggested Greg, helpfully.

John wondered why he hadn’t thought of that.

“Oh. Yeah, go on, then.”

He wiggled his jeans and pants down to his thighs. His cock sprung up, ever ready for action. It always was in moving vehicles – a hangover from his Army days.

Mycroft rolled up his sleeve and breathed on his hand to warm it up.

“Allow me, Johnny.”

John nodded.

“Cheers love. Return the favour?”

“If you would, thank you." Mycroft simply unzipped himself without bothering to lower his clothes. There were limits to semi-public indecency, and practicalities to be considered too.

The two men rummaged for each other’s hard flesh and found what they were looking for. Mycroft was already wet, and John grinned filthily as he slip-slided his hand over the swollen crown. Mycroft moaned softly and thrust his hips up, before remembering his manners and massaging John’s shaft just how he liked it - slow to start with, building to a frenzy. Audience participation was underway before the show had even begun.

Sherlock scowled through the glass at them.

“Greg, get on with it! Ouch!” he exclaimed, as though he hadn’t been expecting a stinging spank.

“Less of your lip, boyo. Just you brace. Eyes front.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just fingers. OK? I’m being generous, but I’m not being that bloody generous. You’ll have to behave for longer than an hour if you want fucking.”

“Yes. But hand as well though?”

“Yeah, course. Just relax, sweetheart. And watch those two.”

“Mm, pretty…”

“I know. Now, then…Where did I put the… Oh yeah.”

Greg dug in his top pocket for the lube and set to work.

He pulled Lock’s jeans down and marvelled at the smoothness of the plump cheeks in broad daylight. He caught sight of John and Mycroft having a mutual masturbatory session in the car, and his own cock twitched at the visual stimulation. Little whimpers of muffled pleasure met his ears, combined with Lock’s keening as he waited impatiently to be serviced at the roadside.

Greg teased round Lock’s exposed little hole with his fingertip, getting lost in the familiar and always thrilling texture of him. Smooth and soft, and creased and tight… He shook his head and reminded himself of where they were. Best to work quickly.

He pressed one well-greased finger in. Lock inhaled as he was breached, thrusting his arse back. Greg placed his other hand on his lover’s lower back and stilled him.

“No, you let me control it…”

Lock nodded and Greg pushed in deeper and harder, adding a second finger when he felt the little muscle relax. When Lock had taken him inside, he moved. Fast. Rough. And with remorseless targeting of the sensitive gland which made the man twist and groan.

“Greg…you’re going quite…ooh!”

“I didn’t say it’d be romantic. Little bit of milking, keep you on your toes. And time is pressing. So it’s this or nothing.”

Greg reached down and took his lover's straining prick in his hand, stripping it firmly but with sensitivity round the ridge of his head.

“This’ll be fine, thank you!” squeaked Lock.

“Thought so.”

John and Mycroft were wide-eyed as they pleasured each other and took in the sight of Lock being so expertly managed.

“Tell those two to… Yes, keep doing that!” gasped Sherlock, gazing back at his lovers with a starstruck expression.

Greg chuckled and sped his ministrations. John and Mycroft fell into sync with him, so that they were all – apart from a typically indolent young Holmes - rubbing away at the same pace.

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, eyes wide at the frantic electricity building at the base of his spine. Greg’s thick digits mastered his core. He gave up trying to thrust on them and just let himself be plundered. He stared across at the ravenous eyes of his lovers through the glass, sharing their utter focus on climax.

Mycroft gave in first, feeling the approach towards the drop. John’s hand gripped him firmly and he twiddled his thumb over his slit just _so,_ and…

Sherlock moaned at the sight, and the sound of it triggered his brother’s release.

“Ooh, baby boy…,” moaned Mycroft, as he came all over the dashboard.

John followed with a flick of Mycie’s wrist and a mouthful of obscenities. He came over the gearstick and the steering wheel, making sure to give the rental car a proper Christening.

Greg winced at the cleaning bill, taking out his frustration on Lock’s clutching passage and his twitching prostate. Not that he seemed to mind.

“Ooh! I’m going to…”

“There’s a good lad…”

“Oh… Oooh… John… Mycie…Greg!”

Sherlock came with a howl – the one he’d been practicing for those Romanian wolves and was pleased to have a reason to use after all. His cock twitched and released a jet of semen over the windscreen, as instructed.

When he’d finished shuddering, Greg quickly unleashed his throbbing prick and pressed Lock’s boneless body flat against the car. He wanked himself to fever pitch and came with a deep moan over his prone bare arse and lower back.

Job done. He stepped back, panting and satisfied, rubbing his spunk into Sherlock's soft skin. 

When they'd both calmed, Sherlock stood, grinning dazedly, to collect his post-orgasmic kiss and cuddle.

Greg ruffled the curly hair, delighted that his prescribed treatment had had the desired effect. Lock was floppy, and compliant, and quiet at last.

“Phew. That’s what I call a layby, lads.”

“Oh, honestly, Gregory!” complained Mycroft from the car, trying to mop up the worst of the mess with his handkerchief. “Must you always reach for the most obvious, most egregious innuendo?”

“Yes, doll, I must.”

“Isn’t that what they call dogging?” said John, with a yawn. He settled himself into the back seat, feeling more like cooperating now.

Mycroft frowned in bafflement.

“There were no dogs involved.”

“It’s Locking, that’s what that is,” giggled Greg as he tucked his spent cock away.

Lock was on a hormone high. He climbed back into the car next to John with a soppy, slack-eyed grin on his face.

John prodded his nothing-there stomach.

“You’re a jammy dickhead, you. Should have been spanked six ways from Sunday there.”

Lock nodded sleepily.

“I know. I’ve forgiven you, by the way.”

“Forgiven me?!”

“Yes. I’ll have a nap on you now.”

“Oh bloody will you?”

John was answered by a snore, and a curly head falling upon his shoulder with a thump. He tutted, wrapped his arm around his lover and planted a kiss on his forehead.

“Come here, cuddly dickhead.”

“Mm, John-John.”

“Ridiculous boy,” sighed Mycroft indulgently, and reached over to stroke his brother's thigh as he drifted off.

Greg cringed at the sticky steering wheel.

“Pass us the wet wipes in the glove compartment, Mycie. Now, let’s find this sodding cottage and have a nice fucking holiday.”

"Yes, dear."

“That’s the spirit, mate,” said John, before joining Lock in a nap.

By some stroke of fortune which Greg could only attribute to divine intervention, they arrived at the cottage largely on time. He realised his obsession with picking up keys had been pointless - Mycroft had them from the security sweep he’d ordered earlier in the week. Anthea had seen to it personally, and destroyed all spare copies unbeknownst to the landlady. The sole masterkeys now rested in Mycroft’s hand.

“Could have told me!” said Greg, taking them from him possessively.

“But you’re adorable when you’re a little OCD, my heart,” chuckled Mycroft fondly. “Now, I have a dossier regarding the procedures should any unwanted attention come our way. I shall distribute copies. The usual thing. Anthea can contact me if absolutely necessary and is monitoring our perimeter. We are to all intents and purposes secure. The support unit can be here within 20 minutes if necessary. But I’m sure it won’t be.”

“Better not be. Not getting airlifted out of Dorset at any price.”

“No. Though, erm, I have hired us a second car. It’s round the back. Just in case. And there’s a scanner system installed, and a laser tripwire which can be set…”

“I don’t want to know! I just want a normal holiday, not a spies bonding weekend!”

“Gregory, security is impera…”

“Imperative, yeah, but – “

“And one never knows…”

“When one might need to enact emergency measure, yes, I bloody know. I don’t need the civil service refresher course!”

“There is no need for sarcasm, Gregory. Nor a raised voice.”

Mycroft raised a disapproving eyebrow and stalked off, unimpressed.

Sherlock emerged from the car, scowling at Greg for being brusque with Mycie. His sex-related good mood had dissipated upon waking to find that he hadn’t dreamt it after all. He really had been kidnapped on holiday to a cottage in the middle of nowhere.

First and second-born Holmes stalked off, silently communicating their displeasure to each other.

Mycroft opened the door and began tapping at a device, setting the alarm systems to rights, while Sherlock memorised the sequence over his shoulder.

Greg and John unpacked the car under a slight cloud, muttering about spoiled Holmeses never doing a day’s hard work in their lives. But their moods soon lightened when they got inside the cottage. 

The place was charming. Quaint and rather more spacious inside than they expected. The two bedrooms were bright, the beds large and new. Historic 18th century features had been retained, but it felt fresh and modern. Enough authenticity and convenience to please all sensibilities. Almost all.

Lock was not best pleased. He roamed the whole place at speed, sniffing and touching and shuddering at everything he found. And talking, of course. Talking and talking.

“It’s weird, why is it weird? The hallway, it’s too narrow. The kitchen’s all wrong. The oven’s a big…old thing. There are mice, and beetles, and the water pressure’s rubbish, and it smells funny, and people have died in here. Well, that bit’s OK. But, those tiles are cracked, and that cupboard is ergonomically ridiculous, and…”

“ALL RIGHT!” roared Greg, then cleared his throat and lowered his voice at the cringing all around.

Mycroft’s grey eyes narrowed at him sharply. John gave him the ‘not good’ look.

Sherlock looked uncharacteristically downcast and Greg stepped in to hug him.

“Look, it’s not Baker Street, OK? But it’s fine. I promise. Can you try to accept it for what it is? We’re not buying the place.”

“Buy it?” muttered Sherlock, darkly. “I’d rather set light to it.”

“You bloody will not!” said John, looking momentarily panicked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes contemptuously.

“I’ll resist the urge. But it’s weird and I don’t like it!”

Greg rubbed his arms in comfort.

“Aw. You don’t do well with new, do you, love?”

“Nuh. Not to sleep in.”

“Sweetheart, it’s quite all right,” said Mycroft, coming up behind and kissing his volatile brother’s neck. “I know what you mean, but… It’s really rather lovely. And romantic. I think we’ll have all sorts of fun here, don’t you?”

The younger Holmes looked round at him with a put-upon expression.

“Mm. S’pose so.”

“Let’s unpack,” said John, ever the pragmatist. “We’ll make it feel more familiar, yeah? How's that for a plan?”

Sherlock huffed, but Mycroft tapped him on the bottom.

“I shall even refrain from comment about the appalling way you stuffed all your clothes into that case without even ironing them first.”

“Yes. Yes. All right. A plan,” said Sherlock, thoughtfully. “Let's do a plan. Unpacking, that’s good. Then what?”

“Then…showers,” suggested Greg. “Or a bath, if you like. There is one, I made sure. I know what a water-baby you are. Then dinner, and then… Little bit of naughty, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“That’s a good plan,” said John.

“That’s a holiday, love.”

“But that’s just what we do every day, every week!” moaned Sherlock, disappointed that there wasn’t some extra twist.

“Not in Dorset, dear.”

Sherlock had to concede that this was true. Though it was rotten.

Unpacking was far less stressful than packing. At first. Sherlock and Mycroft took one room, John and Greg the other, though they would all sleep wherever they fell once they’d exhausted each other in every available space of the holiday home.

Greg was just calming down nicely, thinking about the days of nookie ahead as he hung his spare jumper up in the wardrobe, when Sherlock appeared in the doorway. A frowning, worried Sherlock. 

"Where's Duckward?"

Greg paused at the seemingly random query.

"How'd you mean?"

"I mean...” Sherlock shook his head. “No, there's no other way of expressing the question. Where is Duckward?"

"Where I left him,” said Greg, with a shrug, wondering what the hell the rubber duck had to do with anything. “He’s at my house, in my bathroom. Sitting on the side of the bath." 

Sherlock’s blood ran cold.

"You didn't pack him," he said, in a faint voice.

"No, of course I didn't pack him." 

And now Sherlock’s blood was boiling. It was an odd sensation, going from ice cold to burning hot in five seconds flat.

"You. Left. Duckward…At Home?!" he exclaimed, aghast. Horrified.

Greg looked more confused than he usually looked, even at the Yard, and glanced across at John for help. John frowned and offered none at all.

"Yeah, I left him at home,” said Greg, defensively. “Cos he’s a rubber duck, and…what’s the issue exactly?"

"How could you?!" raged Sherlock, stamping his foot, fists balled up at his sides.

"What?! You didn't say you wanted him!"

Lock almost jumped into the air in rage. John immediately diagnosed a full-blown Holmes tantrum. It was going to be a big one. Force 9. Could go to 10 if pushed.

"Of course I wanted him! How am I supposed to have a bath now?! Oh, you've ruined everything, Lestrade. And now Duckward is all on his own! In horrid Lambeth!"

Greg attempted to placate his furious lover.

"Bloody hell... Sorry, love..."

"No sorries! Not talking to you!"

Sherlock whirled round on his heel and kicked the door frame before slamming the door three times and flouncing to the other bedroom. He bumped into Mycroft in the corridor, and slammed the other door behind him, locking himself in.

"Lock?!" called Mycroft, in a worried voice.

There was an abject, livid silence.

"What on earth?!”

John's tousled head emerged from the bedroom.

"Greg left Duckward at home."

Mycroft’s face fell.

"Oh dear."

John ran a hand through his hair in despair.

"Oh dear is right. He's flipped his lid! Hasn’t he, Greg?"

They went into the bedroom to find a rather stunned-looking Greg, gesturing helplessly to no-one.

"I didn't know I was supposed to bring him!" he said, as though he were still being accused of the most appalling crime of the century.

Mycroft put his hands on his hips and shook his head balefully.

"Oh, Gregory, you poor man. You _were_ supposed to bring him."

"You are joking?"

“No. Baby brother does like his creature comforts when he's away. I think he was relying on you to know that without having to tell you. Possibly this is my fault. I should have thought of it and said something…”

“Not your fault. But how was I supposed to bloody guess that one?!”

“I’ll go and see if I can get him to come out,” said John, patting Greg sympathetically on his way and feeling secretly relieved that he wasn’t the one in the doghouse. He left Mycroft to comfort the poor sod, and went to knock on the closed door. He could practically hear the sulk emanating from behind it.

"Want some food, mate?” he said, tentatively. “Why don't we go downstairs to see what Anthea’s left us in the kitchen?"

It seemed a good strategy to start with. He’d go down the list of options, depending on how it went. 

It went badly. There was no response.

“Ooh, come on,” cajoled John. “It’s only me. Come and have a cuppa with me. Do you some toast, if you like.”

He heard a reluctant but slightly more promising low growl.

"Don't want any," said an extremely huffy voice.

Something was different about it somehow. Though John couldn’t quite say what it was.

"Come down and watch telly with us, then. Don’t miss out on a nice holiday over a toy duck."

"Not a toy! Don't want to come down, and I won’t forgive Greg ever!"

"You're not staying up here on your own all weekend, are you? Open up."

"Never!"

John sighed heavily, losing patience with being snapped at so childishly. He hadn’t even done anything wrong, for a change.

"Oh, stop being a prat, come down and let Greg grovel to you."

"Rude!" 

"You're the one being rude!"

"Not!"

"Sherlock Holmes..."

"Go away, Watson! I am not talking to you either now." 

John loped back to the other bedroom with exasperation. Greg and Mycroft had obviously heard the exchange, and the older man sat with his head in his hands. But Mycroft, as ever, looked deep in contemplation.

John flopped down on the bed. "I don’t know. He's bloody regressing, he is!"

Mycroft’s ears seemed to prick up at that.

"Ah. Hm."

"Myc? What are you thinking?"

"Just a notion,” he said, absently. Then he snapped back to attention. “Gentlemen, as the most long-standing tantrum negotiator of our little cabal, I suggest that I make an attempt to extract my brother. I’ve been doing it since he was old enough to reach door locks."

“Get in there, Mycie,” said Greg. “But if he won’t come out for you I’ll kick the door in and smack his arse for being such a melodramatic little…”

“You can’t spank him for expressing his feelings, Gregory,” said Mycroft, a little haughtily.

Greg was approaching his own sulk now.

“I know! I’m just… What about _my_ feelings?! I feel like a total villain, just cos I didn’t know I was responsible for packing a child’s bath toy for a two day mini-break! Anyway, he’s too big to be obsessed with a rubber duck. I’ll chuck the squeaky yellow bastard into the recycling if he doesn’t come out sharpish!”

“Aw, poor Duckward,” giggled John.

Mycroft saw nothing to laugh at.

“You’re feeling guilty, Gregory, and saying things you don’t mean.”

The deduction was accurate. Greg tutted sheepishly.

“Yeah, well. The only thing stopping me is knowing he’d make my life a living hell if I did it.”

“So would I, dear,” said Mycroft matter-of-factly, as he turned to attempt to mollify his little brother.

He didn’t bother knocking on the door.

"Sweetheart, Gregory is very sorry about Duckward.”

"Angry!" came the response.

"I know. Would you please come out so he can say sorry properly?" 

"Sorry's no good! Want Ducky!"

Mycroft folded his arms patiently.

"I know, darling. But you can't sulk all holiday."

"Can. Will."

"Let me be clearer - you won't sulk all holiday if I have anything to do with it."

"Mean brother! S'posed to be on my side!"

The specificity of the language being used by his brother in the last few minutes was not lost on Mycroft. He knew what was happening and it was an intriguing proposition.

"Am I indeed?"

"Yeah. Stupid Papa forgot Duckward. Mycie supposed to be on Lockie's side."

"Oh, I see...” Mycroft smiled as his suspicions were confirmed. “I see.  _Papa_ forgot Duckward, did he? That was silly, wasn't it? Can I come in, Lockie?"

Sherlock heard the shift in tone and knew he had been understood, and that what he needed, what he was asking for, would be accommodated. He suppressed a smile to himself as he heard his brother’s tacit agreement.

"Maybe." 

"Please?” wheedled Mycroft, as though to an angry six-year-old. “I shall be very nice."

"Humph. Fine." 

The door swung open and Mycroft stepped inside. Lock slumped down onto the floor, legs crossed, arms folded, head in his hands.

"Hello, baby brother."

"'Lo Mycie."

Mycroft heaved a sigh and joined his newly-regressed brother on the floor, sitting opposite him in mirror image. 

"Do you want to play something?"

Lock scowled up through his curly fringe and shook his head.

"No. Yeah. Dunno," he sighed, and hid his face in his hands again.

Mycroft stroked his brother’s knee with light fingertips.

"I see. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Lock nodded. "Cuddle."

He held his arms out hopefully, blushing and looking down.

"Ah. I see. Cuddle for baby brother. Up you get then."

Mycroft groaned at his aching back as he helped Lockie to his feet and pulled him into a cuddle.

It had been a while since Lockie had made such a wholehearted appearance. Mycroft smirked to himself over his brother's shoulder.

The regression state was a refuge for Sherlock on occasion. It was also entirely a deliberate choice, as much a performance as a headspace. He could snap in and out of it at will, and never lose himself in the process. Sherlock retained full adult awareness and decision-making capabilities when he was like this. He was simply able to be two people at once – his young self and his grown-up self. And quite a lot of other selves besides. It was entirely liberating. He had decided to enter into Lockie-space now for good reason – revenge. Because if fully adult Sherlock was high-maintenance for Greg Lestrade, Little Lockie would be an absolute nightmare. This was what he had been planning all along. Duckward’s absence, sad though it was, was a transparent pretext for naughtiness. This holiday, it was clear, would involve rather more work than anyone had bargained for.

“Better now?” said Mycroft, knowingly. Sherlock winked at him conspiratorially, then his features set back into Lockie mode.                                                                 

“Bit. Will you play with me all day today?” he whispered, as though communicating a deadly secret.

Mycroft regarded him seriously. 

“Would you like me to?

Sherlock nodded definitively.

“Uh-huh. Yeah. Mycie play too. Big brother.”

“Do you really need me to, sweet boy?” asked Mycroft, kindly, knowing what he was about to get himself into.

“Yup.”

“Hm, I will then.”

Lock clapped his hands in glee.

“Yay! But don’t tell Papa yet or… What’s John?” he asked, anxiously.

Mycroft patted his brother’s back reassuringly.

“We’ll see who he feels like being today. You know our Johnny. He can go in any direction. He might want to play with us too.”

“Mm, OK, but if he does then I’m in charge of him!”

“No, you’re littlest."

“Why?”

“Because you always are.”

“OK. Will Papa mind us playing, d’you think?”

Mycroft chuckled.

“Oh, I think he’ll catch on. Like when he came to our, er, school.”

“Oh, yeah! Ha! That was fun. Are we going to have fun all day, Mycie?”

“Yes, baby brother mine. We are.”

“And just see what happens?”

“I think so.”

“Good.”

“Serves Papa right, you think? For taking us out of London? And forgetting Duckward?”

“Yeah. Serves Papa right. Silly Papa.”

Mycroft nodded and began his own internal process of inhabiting his least mature self. Lock needed him to play, and play he would. Besides, Gregory had been rather unacceptably grumpy of late. Holmes boys really didn't tolerate that sort of thing. It would have to be dealt with. And of course, the Holmes boys would have to be dealt with.

That would be fun too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, do chat to me, I love it. I hugely appreciate your time. I hope you're reading and enjoying yourself. xxx


	3. Cottaging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycie and Lockie begin to play. Holmeses like it a bit weird, don't they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my darlings, it's been an unforgivable while. I blame Christmas. But New Year's Resolutions start and end with fanfic. I am back on the wagon, babies. Love you. xxx

When Mycroft emerged back into the bedroom, neither Greg nor John could tell that anything was different. Other than their lover seemed a little pensive and subdued.

Greg’s heart sank. Obviously efforts to shake Sherlock from his mega-sulk had failed. And now it seemed Mycroft was on the verge of a plunge into low mood. All they needed.

"Are you all right, doll?"

Mycroft looked up, biting his lip rather nervously. John frowned. That wasn’t really a Mycroft thing.

The elder Holmes brother sighed heavily. 

"Fine." 

"Yeah?"

"Hm-mm."

Greg exchanged a brief look with John.

"What's wrong? Did Sherlock give you a load of grief?"

Mycroft shook his head definitely.

"No. Lockie's all right now.”

His limpid grey eyes, mildly insecure, darted around the room, avoiding the curious stares.

“Lockie?” checked Greg.

Mycroft nodded emphatically.

“Yes. Lockie. In there. Oh, out here now. Hello, baby brother.”

He smiled sweetly as Sherlock slouched in the doorway, still scowling just a tiny bit, but evidently emerging from his snit.

The younger Holmes headbutted his brother’s shoulder in greeting and Mycroft patted the dark curls as he would a favoured pet. The brothers stood shoulder to shoulder, then slowly linked hands.

Greg was a bit thrown at the sight before him.

"In pyjamas already, love?"

Sherlock nodded and twisted one cuff of his long brushed cotton t-shirt into his free hand. He was wearing his loose lounging trousers, but not, Greg noted, his silk dressing gown.

Sherlock sniffed.

"Mm. Comfy."

There was rapt silence as the two grown-ups in the room tried to work out what to say. 

“Mycie said you’d ‘pologse to me ‘bout Duckward,” muttered Sherlock, looking up at Greg through his lashes.

“Oh, did he?!” said Greg indignantly. Then he softened. Because Lock was just a bit too adorable in pyjamas. “Er… Yeah. OK. I’m sorry about leaving Duckward behind. Silly mistake. Won’t happen again.”

Sherlock was still pouting just a tiny bit, but he seemed mollified.

“Good.”

“Right. Am I forgiven then?” checked Greg, not entirely sure of his ground right now.

"Mm. Maybe,” said Sherlock, tilting his head. “Can we have food? Tummy’s rumbling."

The mercurial change of subject was not entirely uncharacteristic. Greg thought himself lucky to have gotten away without more recrimination.

"Er. Yeah. I'll whip something up."

"Mash," demanded Sherlock. 

"You what?"

"Mash. Tatoes."

John looked askance. Sherlock’s vocabulary seem to have slipped.

"I like mash too," said Mycroft, hopefully, in case this swung the deal.

The brothers stared at them, all puppy eyes and hope.

"Well, if there are potatoes, I'll do some," said Greg, carefully.

"Kitchen's fully loaded, Greg. Why don't we do a roast chicken, all the trimmings? Keep you all happy?" offered John. 

Everyone could agree to that, and there was palpable relief on all sides.

Greg stepped forward, arms out to his youngest lover.

"Give us a cuddle then, Trouble."

"OK. If I can have mash," said Lock, with an air or profound generosity.

Greg grinned.

"You can have mash," he said, grabbing Sherlock and hugging him. But Sherlock wriggled out of his grip and hopped with excitement.

"Mycie, mash!"

Mycroft turned to him, face aglow with delight.

"Mm. Scrummers!" 

Sherlock raced out of the room and Mycroft followed at his heels, at a more leisurely, though more energetic than usual pace. 

Greg looked back at John, face a mask of utter bemusement.

"What’s going on with those two?!"

John shrugged rather merrily. He’d rather enjoyed that little performance.

"General weirdness, mate. All will be revealed, no doubt." 

Greg shuddered.

"They're all...like little Victorian dolls or something. Freaking me out."

"Think they're trying to scare us? For a giggle." 

Greg frowned. "Up to something." 

"Not Myc as well, surely?!"

Mycroft could be relied upon to be sensible. Couldn't he? John was prepared to play at denial for just a little while longer, determined to enjoy whatever show was about to be put on.

Greg had severe doubts. Greg knew A Plan when he saw one. 

"Oh, Myc too. Guilty look in his eye. They’re on one, the pair of them."  

John attempted to hide his chuckle behind his hand. 

"Oh, bloody hell, Greg, why did you take them out of London?! I knew it was a stupid idea!"

Putting their misgivings aside for the sake of practical matters, they finished unpacking. Then they went downstairs to find the Holmeses, now both in nightwear – Mycroft in his elegant black silk pyjamas – playing Scrabble. Their hearts sank. Operation was on the With Special Permission Only list. Scrabble was on the list of Games Sherlock and Mycroft Are Not Allowed To Play, Ever.

And the reason for that was immediately apparent.

“Quango isn’t a word!” shouted Lock in outrage, slamming his hands down on the table.

Little white tiles jumped chaotically into the air, disrupting the board.

“Yes, it is,  _actually,_ ” said Mycroft, haughtily.

“How can it be?! I’ve never heard of it!”

Mycroft snorted. 

“There are some things you  _don’t_ know! You don’t know every word, Lockie, you just think you do!”

Sherlock's bright eyes flashed. 

“I do SO know every word. What does it mean, then?”

“It means Quasi Non-Governmental Organisation," said the elder Holmes, with his most irritating tone of condescension. 

“Ha! Then it’s an acronym. You can’t have acronyms!”

“You can!”

Sherlock glared and sat back, looking as though he was willing his awful big brother to spontaneously combust. 

“Bet you can’t even use it in a sentence!”

Mycroft smiled smugly, confident in his win.

“The Environment Agency is a quango, a semi-public administrative body outside the civil service but receiving financial support from the government. So. There.”

Sherlock stood up from the table in fury and flipped the board into the air, casting letters across the kitchen.  

“Rubbish! You’re just making things up now! Just because you got the Q and couldn’t think of a real word!”

“You're a rotten sore loser, Lock! And I can think of lots of Q words – quotient, quizzical, quasar…”

“Quiet!”

Greg roared into the room, secretly quite pleased with himself for that one. The brothers fell instantly silent and looked up at him in guilty shock. Lips were bitten. Feet were shuffled. Eyelashes were fluttered. 

“No Scrabble!" commanded Greg in a booming voice. "I'm not having Scrabble or Scrabble-based arguments on this holiday! Where did you even get it?!”

“We found it in the living room. There’s lots of games,” said Mycroft, calmly.

“And boring puzzles,” huffed Sherlock, unable to believe just how many boring things one cottage could contain. “And there’s crochet, and stupid knitting things. Ooh, _someone_ could use it to knit themselves another ugly jumper…!”

John looked utterly pissed off. The Holmes brothers forget to be at each other’s throats, and instead united in giggles.

Greg folded his arms, unamused.

“Clear that lot away. Every single letter. Dunno what’s got into the pair of you. Grow up.”

The rogue Scrabble-players exchanged meaningful looks, though the meaning was temporarily lost on Greg.

"Don't want to," husked Sherlock, flopping into his seat and hiding his face in his folded arms.

Mycroft obediently began clearing up the Scrabble debris, and said nothing. 

The moment was allowed to pass. Greg didn't feel up to another confrontation so soon after the last one, so he retired to the living room.

John got stuck into making dinner, waiting out the moment when the Obvious Holmes Weirdness would be revealed.

As Greg sat watching telly, the brothers Holmes joined him rather sheepishly. One sat on either side of him, feet up on his lap. Both were mercifully silent. Though…that was kind of creepy too…

When John called them all in for dinner, it became clear that quiet time was over.

“I want the most!” demanded Lock, heaping his plate high with mash.

Mycroft went for the spoon. 

“No, I want the most!”

“You always want the most!”

“Not always, just this time!”

"Nooo! It's my Happy Mash, cos I'm still sad about Duckward!"

"Manipulative brat!"

"Greedy brother!"

That was enough, as far as Greg Lestrade was concerned. He slammed his fist on the table. They all jumped.

“Right, that’s it! What's going on?"

Mycroft turned with wide eyes, which momentarily flicked across to Lock's. 

"Nothing," he said, blankly.

Lock rolled his eyes. 

"Obviously."

“No, something, obviously," said Greg, through gritted teeth. "Come on. Out with it. What's the idea?"

The Holmeses gazed at each other in silent conversation, and came to an agreement. 

Mycroft pointed at his brother.

"Little Lock."

Greg closed his eyes. "Oh God..."

"Come again?" said John, with a grin. Poor Greg. 

"Lockie's little," explained Mycroft, generously. "And so am I, a bit. But bigger than Lock. Because he's my baby brother. Obviously."

"Little?" said Greg, just checking. Was there some chance this was all a nightmare he'd wake from?

No, there wasn't.

"Yup. Like when you came to our school, remember?" prompted Sherlock, with a naughty and rather adult grin behind his young persona.

"Is that all right… Papa?" asked Mycroft, eyes narrowing with a slightly more grown-up air, checking in with his lover. No game was ever played without full consent. Greg had the option to kybosh the whole thing. 

The older man heaved a sigh, though only semi-reluctantly.

"OK... Oh, blimey... Papa it is.”

What a bloody pushover, he thought to himself. But Holmeses will be Holmeses, and if this is what they wanted to do, Papa found it very hard not to indulge them. Spoilt brats, the pair of them.

John snorted and put his head in his hands.

"Oh mate, you're going to regret that." He wasn’t so sure that he wouldn’t regret it too.

Greg shrugged.

“Well, I suppose it’s not exactly out of my realm, is it? Little. Can do. Gonna be my good boys though?" he checked, pointing at them in turn. 

"Mm-hm. Yes, Papa," nodded Mycie, with his very best manners.

Sherlock raised his hand. “I’m not," he said, proudly. 

Greg frowned and winced at the same time. It was quite hard to pull off, but he managed it.

“For, erm, how long are you gonna be…Little, can I ask?”

He dreaded the answer.

“Don't know,” said Mycie, with an adorable little smirk.

“Forever and ever!” said Lock, with a happy squeal.

“Bloody Nora," said John, echoing Greg’s thoughts exactly. 

Mycie frowned at that.

“Swearing is rude, isn't it, Papa?”

Greg laughed and looked across at an indignant John. 

"Yeah, it is. Aren’t you my nice polite Mycie?"

"Yes."

"Nothing else to say for yourself?"

Mycroft sat up straight, hands folded neatly in front of him, demonstrating his goodness.

"Not at the moment, thank you. But you can ask me a question. Ask me any question and I'll tell you the answer." 

"Oh, will you?"

"Yes,” said Mycroft, nodding happily. “I can, you know. I'm very clever."

"I know, sweetheart."

Lockie bounced up and down.

"Me too, Papa! I’m cleverererer. I can answer even more questions!"

“Er, I think I’m out of questions at the moment. Except, er, John…are you OK, mate?”

Greg looked across and his rapidly paling lover.

"You're having a laugh, I've just escaped one bloody kid!" muttered John, suddenly seeing the implications of an entire weekend of superfluous information, endless 'whys', nagging, and a whole new level of performative bad behaviour. It _was_ a fun thought, Greg having to cope with all this nonsense. But he’d have to cope with it too, he realised.

He also realised that his slight feeling of dismay stemmed from not quite knowing his role in all of this. Which side to play...? Who to be this time? No-one had consulted him, and he was usually consulted.  

Mycie gasped as John contemplated his game options. 

"Rude! Papa, he said the b-word again."

"Yes, he did. No swearing in front of my boys, John," admonished Greg, with a playful tut.

John grimaced. The use of his real name. It didn't feel quite right for this one.

Sherlock gave him a knowing look and threw him a lifeline. 

"John. Yuck!"

"Not John?" asked Greg, looking back and forth between his partners.

Sherlock shook his head, nose all screwed up in disgust. 

"Nuh."

"So who, then...?"

"Da - " began Mycroft, knowing it would be shot down, but hoping to prompt productive discussion. 

"Nope!" interrupted John in haste. "Already got Dad, Daddy, or versions of them covered in reality. Not massively comfortable with going there, to be honest."

"OK. Stuck with John then, I guess," shrugged Greg. 

Sherlock wailed. 

"Nooo!"

"I know! Uncle Johnny!" exclaimed Mycroft suddenly, proving himself to be Extremely Clever Indeed. 

Greg smiled at John with wicked glint in his eye.

"There you go." 

John considered it. Yeah. Sounded all right. Bit pervy, bit playful. Lots of potential there. And not remotely connected to real life. 

"Uncle Johnny? Really?" he said, feigning scepticism.

Lock clapped his hands in approval. 

"Quite suits you, love," said Greg, leaning across to give his lover a peck on the lips. "And you're not anyone's uncle in real life."

"Nope,” agreed John. “Suppose I could live with Uncle Johnny." 

“UncleJohnnycanyouplaysoldierswithme?!” breathed Lock, quivering with excitement.

John grinned in pleasure.

"Yeah. Yeah, reckon I could play something with you, littl'un. But erm… Maybe not soldiers. Uncle Johnny was a real soldier and, erm, not as much fun as you think… Don’t want to trigger a sodding flashback. Pirates?”

Lock looked unsure of himself.

“No… Pirates is old. Mycie, what else is there?”

“Smugglers?” suggested Mycie, thinking of their coastal location.

Greg frowned a bit, having visions of that game getting out of hand and involving a lot of his stuff going missing in the process.

“Cowboys?” he suggested. But then, that might involve lassos and horses…

“Space cowboy pirates!” squealed Lock. “With space horsies, and they have lasers that go ppyeeeooowww!”

John snorted drily.

“Yeah, sounds great. Space cowboy pirates with lasers.”

“And the rules are you’re a horsie, and then you be an alien, Uncle Johnny, and I have to catch you!”

“That’s a rule, is it? Fine. Erm… Speaking of rules – what are the rules for this? This whole thing?"

Greg understood at once.

“Perv rules? Well… Up to our boys. Like when they were at, er, ‘school’. Nothing too much unless they decide… Already know they can’t keep their hands off each other. Naughty lads.”

The Holmes boys feigned blushing self-consciousness, belied by evil little smirks.

“We’re good boys, Papa,” said Mycroft, with a wink. “But we do love each other very much, and we might forget we’re not allowed to do touching…”

“I always forget,” said Sherlock, proudly.

Greg winked back, delighted by the double pleasures of mixing roleplay with reality. His lovers were lurking beneath the surface of their characters, testing him at every turn. Exhausting it may be. But anything for a giggle.

“Yes, well. If I catch you up to anything like that, I might be a bit cross.”

Mycroft blushed red.

“Oh!”

“Maybe Papa and Uncle Johnny can’t keep their hands off each other either...,” said John, grinning darkly. “And you two will just have to amuse yourselves.”

“Ooh!”

“Not fair!” moaned Lock, annoyed at being played at his own game. “We want cuddles too.”

“You’ll get ‘em,” said Greg, ruffling his partner’s curls. “If you’re very good, and if you ask very nicely.”

“Humph! I don’t like asking nicely!”

Greg gave a pout of exaggerated sympathy. “I know, baby. Can’t behave yourself at all, can you?”

“Nope!”

Greg clapped his hands together with the air of ultimate authority.

“Right. Papa’s rules: no naughty touching, no fighting. Papa’s word is law, followed by Uncle Johnny’s in case Papa needs to retire with a migraine. And Papa and Uncle Johnny won’t instigate anything…improper…unless the Boys can persuade us they need a bit of special attention. I know you think you’ve got me over a bloody – sorry, Mycie, doll – over a ruddy barrel, but two can play at that game, cheeky little… Think you’re irresistible, don’t you?”

“Yes,” they said simultaneously. Certain of that fact as they always were.

“Goes without saying all the usual safewords apply, right?” said Greg. “And if you want or need to snap out of the game, you do it. No playing along, no trying to please anyone else. Same goes for me and Johnnyboy. Tap out whenever.”

A chorus of three voices saying “Yes, Papa” met his ears, only of them one ironic.

“Other than that, we’ll see what comes naturally, yeah? Now, off you go and play.”

John stood and grappled Lock’s arm.

"Come on, big boy. Up."

Sherlock scampered up and ran out, bouncing with energy. John followed in much the same vein, rather looking forward to a bit of Lockiesitting, aka mucking about with his best mate pretending to be an alien horse or whatever damn fool thing it was he’d agreed to.

Mycroft sat still, twiddling his fingers. Greg patted him fondly.

“Mycie, what do you want to do, sweetheart? I take it you don’t fancy Space Cowboy Pirates?”

“No. Too noisy. And too silly. Perhaps read my book? Or I could help you, Papa?”

Greg tweaked his boy’s long, distinguished nose.

“OK. Can you help Papa in the kitchen? Sort the place out a bit while your brother’s distracted?”

“Mm. Yes. But I’d rather dry than wash.”

“All right, lovely. Then reading time?”

“You read to me, Papa!”

Greg stopped short at the request.

“Who, me?!”

“Yes, please,” nodded Mycie, sweetly.

“All right,” he shrugged. “If you can cope with me mispronouncing everything.”

“You won’t. And I’ll correct you very politely.”

Adult Mycroft smirked at his lover from beneath lowered lashes.

“I have always thought you’d be marvellous at reading me a story,” he said, in a deeper voice. “You have a lovely timbre to your voice, dear. I mean, Papa.”

Greg was touched and rather proud of that compliment.

“Yeah? All right, love. I’m game if you are.”

And so they saw out the afternoon in pairs, one quietly, one excessively noisily. Lockie was successfully worn out by trying to catch the Alien, who it turned out was actually a Space Spy in Disguise. Mycie was soothed into relaxation by a soft voice reading him Dr Jeykll and Mr Hyde which Papa thought was rather too grown-up for him. But Holmeses liked odd things.

Both brothers began yawning at the same time, and Greg and John met in the hallway, each dragging a sleepy lad by the hand.

“Nap time,” declared Papa.

“No nap!” whinged Lock, yawning heavily and falling against his benevolent Uncle.

“Oi, big lump. Oh, all right, then… Come on.”

John hoisted the lanky form into a fireman’s lift, pivoting his weight to his advantage, and proceeded to carry him up the stairs.

Mycie giggled at the flailing limbs and the delighted grunts of his baby brother being skilfully manhandled.

“If I didn’t have a rotten creaky back, I’d do the same for you, big boy,” teased Greg.

“No fear!” said Mycie. “I’m too big to carry!”

“Stay there, I’m coming back for you, Mycie!” called John, depositing a half-asleep Lock onto the bed.

Mycroft protested, but Uncle Johnny would not be denied. He hoisted him over his shoulder, protesting and chuckling all the way.

“Put me down at once!”

“Shh, Myc. Humour an old soldier, eh? Can still carry double your weight, and you’re light as a feather.”

“Really, Jo-…Uncle Johnny! It’s most undignified for a boy my age!”

Greg laughed and followed them upstairs.

Both Holmes brothers collapsed into a heap on the bed and cuddled up instantly, whispering things into each other’s ears – things not meant for grown-ups to hear, obviously.

Greg tugged at two delicate eartips. Bright eyes blinked innocently up, playing it for all it was worth and fooling no-one.

“Now then, no whispering, and no messing about,” said Papa. “Proper naps so you’re not all grumpy later.”

Sherlock tried to scowl but it got away from him and turned into a yawn instead.

“Some of you have been grumpy for bloody weeks…,” muttered John under his breath. “What?” he said, innocently at glares from all sides.

“Won’t be grumpy…,” mumbled Lock, trying to keep combative, but fast succumbing to sleepiness. His resolve to run amok was a little compromised. It had been so much fun playing with Uncle Johnny, and Mycie was so warm and soft, and Papa’s fingers though his hair were just so…

He fought his adult mind down and let himself sink into that floppy, immature state which offered its own peculiar comfort. Revenge could be postponed in favour of a nap.

“N’nightloveyou…,” he mumbled, gripping Mycroft to him as though fearful he might get away.

Mycie snuggled into the curly hair and sighed contentedly.

“Mm…Lockie. Smells like toffee and gingerbread and…”

He broke off and into gentle snores, joining his baby brother in sleep, drawn to follow wherever he went.

They received kisses to their foreheads as they drifted off.

To Papa and Uncle Johnny, it was somewhat unprecedented. The lack of fuss. The compliance with authority. Best make the most of it.

"They're actually asleep!" exclaimed John in an astounded whisper.

"Something to be said for the way Holmeses can work a headspace. Must be lovely to be able to do that. Just switch your brain onto a different setting." 

"Yep, clever little gits, eh? So...any chance of Papa coming for a grown-up cuddle with Uncle Johnny, then?"

John ran his fingers up his lover’s back, and slipped them into the back of his waistband.

Greg practically growled.

"Get in the other room, you." 

“Ooh, whatever you say, _Papa…”_

The crept out, fondling each other and chuckling as they went, enjoying the unexpected frisson caused by the present game. It felt a bit naughty, sneaking out for a shag while their Boys were asleep.

They fell onto the bed, groping at each other’s clothes, stripping each other down for the first time in what seemed like ages. It had definitely been days. Amidst the holiday angst, the packing nightmare and the stress, there hadn’t been much time for bonking. The motorway wank was all well and good. But it wasn’t going to cut it.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” growled Greg, pawing at John’s firm arse and kissing his neck in a fit of passion. John groaned and spread his legs, letting them fall either side of his lover’s hips.

Foreplay was cut short due to utter desperation, and before long Greg was slicking his fingers and pressing into tight, willing heat.

John heard himself whimper, thought it was pathetic, and then forgot to worry about it as Greg stretched him fully open on his cock.

“Yeah, there it is,” said Greg, his face twisted into dark pleasure, eyebrows lowering, canines glinting. He paused, balls-deep, just soaking up the feeling of John surrounding him.

“Forgotten how it goes, mate?” teased John, thrusting his hips forward to get him just that little bit deeper.

“Reckon?” growled Greg, as he pulled back and thrust inside hard.

John yowled and gripped Greg’s forearms as the dance began. Their bodies slapped and slid together, as they indulged in their very athletic first fuck of the holiday.

“Not too loud, you’ll wake the kids!” giggled John, as Greg moaned deep in his chest, slamming in hard and fast so that the headboard battered the wall.

“Shut it, I’m working here.”

“Working? Hardly doing any… Oh, that’s it, yeah…!”

They stared into each other’s wide-blown eyes as their rhythm and energy reached fever pitch. John’s legs began to shake. Greg’s stomach tightened at the sensation building in his balls, and upwards… So near, so near…

Then there was a loud gasp.

"What are you doing to Uncle Johnny, Papa?!"

Of course. Fuckus interruptus.

Greg collapsed on top of John with a defeated ooof, though he stayed lodged inside him. He turned to glare at the interloper.

Lock stood in the doorway looking shocked and curious, and absolutely delighted with himself.

“Don’t bloody stop cos of him!” complained John, wiggling around hopefully.

“Gosh, what’s going on in here?” said Mycie, joining his brother with a disingenuously worried frown. “We heard funny noises, and Uncle Johnny sounded like he was in trouble. Can we help?”

“What were you doing to him, Papa?” said Sherlock again, fighting down a grin.

Greg dropped his head low, gathered his wits, and prepared to play.

"Nothing for you to worry about, lovely boys. Go back to bed, yeah?" 

"Are you hurting Uncle Johnny?" 

"Not unless he asks me to...,” snorted Greg.

"What does that mean?" said Mycie, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking role.

Greg viewed him with narrowed eyes.

"You're something else, Mycroft Holmes, you know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Papa, I do." 

Sherlock whinged in frustration.

"Mycie, what's going on?! Why won’t they tell us?"

"Don't know exactly. Something odd. I think they’re being naughty."

"Ooh, can we watch?!"

"Get out, the pair of you!" hollered John, trying and failing to keep Greg rock hard inside him. But his attention had been diverted and he was slipping out, though keeping a grip on himself.

"NO!" stamped Sherlock angrily. “I want to stay!”

“Oh, we'll let them watch, love. You know how curious they are. Got to learn, haven’t they, smart lads like that?” said Greg, wanking himself and turning his focus back to his most sensible boyfriend.

The brothers clapped their hands in glee and exchanged excited wide-eyed looks.

John rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, all right. But they can sit there, hands on heads. Just watching. No mucking about. There’s grown-up business to attend to.”

“Awww!”

“No whinging,” ordered Greg, lining himself back up again and hoisting John’s ankles onto his shoulders. “Or I’ll send you out.”

“But!”

“Hush, Lock,” admonished Mycie, doing his best to seem mature and responsible. “Do as Papa and Uncle Johnny say. We might find out something interesting.”

“Humph. Fine.”

The brothers pulled two chairs across and sat at the side of the bed. Simultaneously they placed their hands on their heads and pressed their lips together, watching intently.

Greg gathered all of his patience and concentration, determined to teach the little buggers a lesson. And John too, the impatient bastard.

They resumed where they had left off, and John shouted to the ceiling as Greg took him for a nice hard ride.

It was going well. Until the running commentary began.

“Ooh… Papa’s very strong, isn’t he, Mycie?”

“Um. Yes. And Uncle Johnny’s very…bendy, isn’t he?”

“Mm.”

“Mm... Do you think that hurts, Lockie?”

“No. I think he likes it. Look. Smiling.”

“Gosh. Papa’s got a very big…thing. Bigger than mine.”

“And mine. Biggest. Looks yummy.”

“You mustn’t say such things, Lockie. It’s naughty.”

“I know. Can we be naughty later, Mycie? When Papa and Uncle Johnny aren’t looking?”

“Sssh! Yes. But don’t tell.”

“Give it a rest, you two! Putting me right off my stroke!”

“Ooh, bloody finish me off, Greg! Ignore them!”

“Sorry, love. Here you go.”

“Oooh, fuuuu – Ow, Greg, don’t smack me for swearing, I’m in agony here! Ooh whatever, just don’t sto--- Oh! Yeah!”

As John came, a curious pale face leaned in beside his head.

“That’s a very funny face, Uncle Johnny.”

And then another.

“That’s a very silly noise, Uncle Johnny.”

“Bugger off!” said John, between gritted teeth as he convulsed through his aftershocks.

Greg batted the interfering brats away.

“Get out of it, and you, love, just let me… I’m nearly there… I’m gonna… Oh, fuckyeah. Shit, you’re so good, oh, so fucking tight, John…!”

Greg wailed as he emptied his load deep inside John’s twitching arse. There were loud gasps behind him on either side, which to his ears sounded frankly more appreciative than appalled.

“Oh, Papa…,” breathed Mycie, seemingly prepared to drop his puritanical rules about bad words.

“What does fuck mean, Papa?” giggled Sherlock.

“Never you mind, little boy,” snorted Greg, extracting himself.

John let his legs drop and sighed in deep contentment, rubbing his own come onto his belly.

“What’s that stuff?” said Lock, sniffing at it. “Does it taste nice?”

Mycroft chuckled at his brother’s revolting audacity. Never one to pull back from a scene in any way. Just another reason to play with him.

“Special stuff that means Uncle Johnny has had a very nice time with your Papa, so there,” said John, poking out his tongue childishly and licking some of his own mess from his fingers. “And yeah, it kind of does.”

Sherlock gave him a very adult wink, and turned to his brother.

“Yay. That was fun.”

Mycroft patted Greg’s thigh.

“Well done, Papa,” he said, sweetly. "You're terribly good at whatever that was."

“Er, thanks, yeah. Right, you two run along and play. Got a bit of cleaning up to do."

John yawned and rolled over. 

“Nap time for Uncle Johnny, I think.”

Greg caught the yawn, and though he knew it was just asking for trouble, realised he needed a bit of a rest too. That long pain-in-the-arse drive, and the stress, and the massive orgasms…

“Can I trust you two to behave for a bit? While we have some down time?”

The Holmes boys nodded with maximum innocence.

“Yes,” they lied, unconvincingly.

Greg yawned again and fell against John, spooning up to him.

“OK. But I’m keeping the door open. I can tell if you’re being bad, even in my sleep. Eyes and ears in the back of me head, I’ve got.”

Mycie frowned.

“That's ridiculous.”

“And anatomically impossible,” added Lock, with certainty.

“Yeah, yeah. Off you go.”

John giggled as they departed.

“Fucking brats. Let’s get them adopted.”

“Who’d take them?”

“Good point. You know they’re going to cause havoc, don’t you, mate?”

“Yep. Just thought I’d get a kip in first. Need my strength before the bloody inevitable spankings start.”

“Fair enough, Papa. You’ll need it.”

“So will they, Uncle Johnny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My darlings, I've bloody missed you, and I hope you can learn to like me again. xxx


	4. Operation Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mischief ensues. And this is only the beginning. Brotherly bickering, and inevitable consequences.

While John and Greg slept, limbs tangled, jostling subconsciously for more of the duvet, they were oblivious to what was occurring in the living room. Despite Papa’s boasts, it turned out he didn’t have eyes and ears in the back of his head after all. Quite a few things had happened in the hour he had dared to fall asleep. One of those things, now underway, was an illicit game of Operation being played beneath his very nose – a nose which was currently snoring quite loudly in John’s ear, giving him odd dreams about being on a farmyard.

“I’m taking the heart,” declared Sherlock, manoeuvring the tweezers with expertise born of decades of practice.

“You always do,” said Mycroft, with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock extracted the organ with a dark grin.

“It’s a broken heart. I never break them."

Mycroft sighed affectionately.

“Brother mine, you break them wherever you go.”

Sherlock bristled at that. It wasn’t his fault silly girls kept throwing themselves at him. He never did anything to encourage it. Except being pretty. It wasn’t his fault he was pretty!

“I don’t break hearts! Not on purpose. Not anyone important! Not you, or…Papa and Uncle Johnny. Never!”

“I know. I was joking. Hence I’m taking the funny bone...”

Mycie’s tongue snaked out in concentration as he extracted the piece.

Lock fumed.

“Humph. But you’re not even funny.”

“I’m not funny per se, I grant you. Witty, I think is what I am. So I’ve been told.”

“Only by people with a very twisted sense of humour.”

“That’s all the decent people I know,” chuckled Mycroft, catching his brother’s eye with a knowing glint.

Sherlock smirked back.

“Good point, big brother mine.”

Mycroft submerged himself back into full Little mode, and continued with his turn – he nearly had it, the tweezers perched delicately between forefinger and thumb. One more clean extraction and he would be the winner…

“Oh!”

He looked down at the game up in outrage at the offensive little buzz it emitted. Then he looked up in double-outrage as his brain caught up with what had happened at lightning speed. He’d been nudged as Sherlock crossed his arms.

“It buzzed! You lose!” cried Lock, with casual joy.

“Because you jostled me!”

“Didn’t. You’re just clumsy. You could never be a surgeon. Or a bomb disposal expert. Or an Inquisitor. You’ve got shaky hands.”

Mycie gasped in horror.

“Haven’t! My hands are skilled and steady. Mummy always said I had lovely hands. My penmanship is immaculate! My charcoal drawings are, to quote Uncle Rudy, ‘precise and expressive’!”

“Not violinists’ hands though, are they? Mine are more agile, and talented, and prettier. So I win and sucks to you,” crowed Lock with unbearable smugness.

Mycie snatched up his brother’s hands and examined them closely, noting the bits of dried mash in the nail beds.

“Hm. They are very smooth and pale, I’ll admit, but they are also filthy cheating hands, and I… I loathe them!”

Lock slapped his brother’s arm with one loathsome hand.

“No, you don’t! Take that back, Mycroft Holmes!”

“Shan’t.”

“You do like my hands! You like them when they…do the magic thing. In your pants.”

“Well, yes, I do like that,” admitted Mycie, unable to deny it even for form’s sake, “But you’re still a dreadful Operation player and a sore loser!”

“That’s a horrid thing to say! I’ll tell Mu… Papa!”

Mycie gave him a triumphant smirk.

“You won’t, because then he’ll get cross at both of us for playing Operation without permission, and at you especially for being a little sneak and a vile cheating bounder!”

"Didn’t cheat. I won!" pouted Lock, appalled at his brother’s lack of comprehension on the matter.

"You won unfair and unsquare!”

Mycie suddenly thought better of arguing it out in this futile way. An idea – no, a memory – rose unbidden in his brain. His tone shifted into a darker register, and a certain look of intense perception entered his gleaming grey eyes.

“You know what happens to cheats, Lockie..."

Lock went still, and his eyes widened imperceptibly.

"Shut up."

Mycie fixed him with a knowing glare.

"Cheats don't get Christmas presents."

"So?" said the younger Holmes, feigning nonchalance, but unable to prevent the crease of worry crossing his brow.

"Cheats get taken by..."

Lock clamped his hands over his ears and shook his head from side to side.

"No! Shut up, Mycroft!"

"Krampus!" declared Mycroft with glee, rolling the r with a theatrical flourish, pronouncing it with all the satanic menace he could muster. Which was rather a lot.

"Shut up! There's no such thing!"

"Krampus, Krampus, coming to snatch you up in a sack and take you away... Krrrrampusssss…," he hissed, twisting his face into a hideous sneer.

Lock screwed his eyes shut too.

"I'm not listening and I’m not looking, and I’m not bloody talking to you again bloody ever!"

But Mycie was on a roll.

"Ooh, Krampus doesn’t like naughty boys who cheat and swear. The big hairy Krampus is coming for you, Lockie Holmes, all slobbering with his sharp claws and his birch. And he will thrash you, and steal you off to a faraway cave, and EAT YOU!"

"Aaaargh! I hate you!"

Lock launched himself at his taunting brother in fury, so that Mycie was thrown back onto the carpet with a thud. They tussled and scratched like rats in a bag, limbs flying everywhere. Rarely did the Holmes boys descend to wrestling outside of the bedroom, but the K-word was a surefire trigger for Locke’s wildcat alter ego. Mycie was perversely pleased to see he could still summon the hissing, spitting feline at will. Although he came to regret it rather quickly.

“Ouch, don’t pull my nose, you little monster! You’ve ripped my pyjama buttons off! Menace! Fiend! Pestilence!”

“Rotten brother! Odious sibling! Ow, don’t pull my hair! Mummy says my hair’s for decoration not for pulling! Mean!”

“You vain cheating brat of a baby brother!”

“You pompous stuck-up beast of a Mycroft!”

“Woah, what the hell’s going on?!”

The pair winced at the shout and fell utterly still at once, in a tangled heap. They looked first at each other in the manner of ‘uh-oh’, and then over at a steaming Greg Lestrade in the manner of ‘erm, this is probably exactly what it looks like’.

Lockie acted quickly, and he acted well.

"Papa!" he wailed, hastening to his feet, leaving Mycroft prone on the floor. He ran towards, not away, throwing himself into Greg’s arms and wrapping his arms around him for comfort. He buried his head into the broad chest and sobbed his heart out.

Greg looked astonished. He so rarely had Sherlock running towards him, except at work, and then it was usually just to tell him he’d screwed something up.

"Hey, hey, baby... What's all this?" he said, instinctively comforting the distressed lad.

"Nothing, Papa!” said Mycie, standing up quickly, looking guilty as sin.

“Mycie was mean to me and made me cry!” whinged Lock, burrowing into Greg’s shirt front.

Greg glared at Mycroft, though with a visible element of benefit of the doubt.

Mycroft gulped, feeling dreadful now.

“No… I didn’t… Lockie cheated at Operation and…got upset. And those are his fake tears!" he said, indignant that Papa should fall for such an obvious ruse.

Papa smirked in spite of himself.

“Upset about getting caught cheating? Isn’t he used to it by now?”

"Don't want the K-krampus to get me!" sobbed Lock in a tremulous little voice.

“Krampus?”

Lock nodded pitifully, still shaking with terror. He felt he was doing rather a good job of it.

“The hairy Christmas beast!”

“The what?!” snorted Greg, wondering if he’d heard that right. He looked at his eldest in bafflement.

“Erm, Krampus,” explained Mycroft, airily. “He’s an urban legend. But he might also be real…”

Little Lock wailed and hugged his Papa tighter. Mycroft hastily retracted it.

“All right, all right, he’s not real, he’s just a story made up to frighten children who cheat and are horrid misbegotten brats! He gathers them in at Christmas and, erm, punishes them for being naughty.”

Greg vaguely recalled hearing something like that before. Some European myth. Possibly from Germany. They were into all kinds of weird shit, the Germans.

“Oh, I see. The anti-Santa. And you told Lock it was coming to get him?”

Mycie shuffled his feet.

“Only a bit.”

“He said the Krampus would take me away and eat me!” shouted Lock, looking up accusingly.

Greg grimaced at the volume and patted Lock’s head on his shoulder.

“Aw, poor baby. You’re not scared of a silly old Christmas story, are you?”

“It’s not silly! It’s scary. Krampus is big and black and hairy, with red, red eyes and a long swishy tail, and big, sharp horns, and a birch to beat bad boys with!”

Lock shuddered in horrified awe at his own description, a thrill of pleasure accompanying the nightmare vision it as it always did.

Greg snorted.

“Sounds like a kinky bugger to me, shall we have him over for tea?”

“Don’t joke!” said a rather adult Sherlock voice.

“All right, sorry, love. Mycie, it was a nasty thing you did, deliberately scaring Lock. Bet he’s always had a thing about the Krampus, hasn’t he? From really little?”

“Erm… Yes, well, I did rather paint a vivid picture…way back when.”

“Right. So you thought you’d leverage that now?”

Mycroft blushed, chastened to discover he was being told off in both adult and Little personas by an appallingly perceptive Gregory.

“Ah. Well, if you put it like that it does seem a tad…”

“Mean,” completed Greg, not unkindly.

“Yes. Maybe. But I was provoked!”

Greg rolled his eyes.

“I can believe that.”

Lock looked up indignantly.

“You’re supposed to be on my side, Papa!”

Greg snorted.

“No, that’s not how Papa works, is it? I’m on both your sides, and I’m also on my side, ta. You’re both spoiling for a fight, and what was one of the most important rules? Same one as it always is…”

“No fighting," they mumbled.

“No fighting. I won’t have my lads at each other’s throats over stupid board games and stories about Kraftwerk or whatever the bloody thing is called.”

“Krampus!” pronounced Mycroft with all the elan of a Royal Shakespeare Company leading man.

“He said it again, Papa! I don’t even want to hear his name!”

“Calm down, the pair of you. This is what happens when you play board games! I said no board games!” exclaimed Greg in frustration.

Why did no-one obey Papa properly?!

“You said no Scrabble,” corrected Mycie, ignoring the fact he was on rather thin ice.

“Didn’t say no Operation,” agreed Lock.

“You must be specific, Papa.”

Papa did not like being patronising by his eldest one bit.

“Oh, must I?” he said, dangerously.

“And Operation isn’t really a board game because there’s not really a board, and…”

“Enough! There’s only one hairy beast punishing naughty lads round here, and it’s me. You’re both getting it, board game or no board game. For fighting, and being lippy, and because I’d lay money on you having done a damn sight more than that in the hour I’ve had my back turned.”

“But don’t you have eyes in the back of your head?”

Greg looked up astonishment. Mycroft was _really_ spoiling for it. Not wanting to be upstaged by baby brother in the Bad Little Behaviour stakes. It was quite impressive somehow.

“Oh, that is it! Smacked bums for the pair of you.”

“Oh, Papa, really!” whined Mycie, feeling he was far too grown-up for that sort of thing.

Lock sniffled self-pityingly.

“No, only Mycie! Mycie’s worst.”

“No, only Lock! Lock cheated and cheating is bad form!”

“Ooh, but it was only a little bit! He was winning. You can cheat if the other person is winning!” said Lock, with his own particular brand of perfect logic.

Papa was unmoved.

“That’s the exact definition of cheating, and…. Shush! You’re both going over my knee. One after the other. Lock, you first.”

“Why me first?!” he squeaked.

“Cos if I spank Mycie first, you’ll get upset and interfere. If you’ve got a sore bottom first, you’ll be less inclined to risk another, won’t you?”

“Papa’s clever,” conceded Mycie.

Greg grunted.

“He is. About this stuff at least. Come on, little Lock. Jammies down.”

“Ooh noooo!”

Lock pouted and hung his head, hoping against hope to drag out the dreaded moment of retribution.

But Papa was having none of it. He grabbed his youngest’s arm and hauled him across to the sofa.

“Mycie, corner. Hands on head.”

Mycroft gaped at him. This was an indignity too far.

“But!”

“No buts, young Mycie Holmes. Corner. But you can watch your baby brother taking his medicine. I know you don’t like to turn your back on him, do you?”

Mycroft shook his head, no. Horrendous as it was to be sent to the corner in disgrace, he was grateful that Papa understood such things. And that Gregory understood such things.

Lock whined as Papa sat and pulled him across his lap. He squirmed as he was pinned by an arm round his waist and kicked in a futile gesture of rebellion.

He winced when his pyjama bottoms were pulled down, blushing at the exposure. In that moment he really did feel terribly little, though his feet still touched the floor.

Papa’s large, square hand raised high in the air.

“Now, then. A lesson about fighting and cheating for you, boyo. I won’t have it, understand?”

Lock nodded and prayed for a reprieve. Some diversion. Some way out of this awful situation.

He got one.

A loud clattering noise burst forth from the kitchen, followed by a seriously impressive swearing marathon.

All three of them looked up in astonishment.

All Uncle Johnny had wanted was a cup of tea. All he’d gone into the kitchen for, sex-sleepy and gasping, was to put the kettle on, and maybe bung a few slices of bacon in a pan for a sandwich. To his audible surprise, instead of tea and a bacon sarnie, what he got was a face full of something wet and sloppy and disgusting - flour and water mixed together in a gloopy paste, as it turned out - and a clonk on the head with the saucepan containing it, which had been precariously balanced on top of the door.

He staggered. He cursed. He went in search of the culprits.

Three heads turned as some sort of swamp monster entered the living room.

“What. The. Fuck?!” he yelled, unable to communicate his disbelieving horror at the state he was in.

Lock giggled. Mycie gulped audibly.

Greg snorted in spite of himself.

“Oh, love. Oh dear.”

John pointed at the bare-arsed Lock, still dangling over his Papa’s knee. And then he pointed at an extremely remorseful, though ever-so-slightly amused, Mycie, standing obediently with his hands on his head.

“You! And you! You’ve done this, you bloody little _sods_! Look at me. My jumper’s ruined!”

He indicated his lovely mustard-coloured jumper, just in case anyone had missed the fact it was saturated with mess.

“I said you made too much,” said Lock, glaring round accusingly at his brother.

“Erm. Well, on reflection... It will wash out. There’s no need to be melodramatic.”

John gawped at the haughty expression on the usually docile Mycie’s face. Being Little had unleashed a Backchat Monster, and he didn’t care for it one bit.

“Is that it?! Is that all you have to say?! Greg, I want him, both of them… Well, it looks like you’ve beaten me to it. Carry on. But I want in. Look at the state of this! The kitchen’s an absolute state too. It’s like the Battle of the Somme. Only instead of mud, it’s all this…white lumpy gloop! Bloody little Holmes gits!”

He dared Mycie to object to the swearing with a fierce glare.

Mycie very wisely opted out of any more cheek, for fear of being unable to sit for the rest of the weekend.

Greg schooled his features into something resembling a sensible adult with the authority to deal with immature pranks without laughing. 

“Yes, love. Got it under control. No, don’t sit on the…!”

But it was too late. John flopped into the armchair, making a splat noise as he landed.

“I’ll make all the mess I like now,” he grunted. “Those two are cleaning it all up. With arses so sore I’ll be able to fry bacon on them for the sarnie I was going to have.”

“It was just a joke, Jo-, Uncle Johnny. We didn’t think it’d land quite so accurately,” said Mycie, more defensively than apologetically.

“Yes we did, we calculated the exact angle of the…!”

Mycroft glared daggers at his flappy-mouthed brother.

“Oh,” breathed Lockie, hastily, “I mean…erm… Nothing.”

“So I take it Holmes the Elder masterminded this little scheme?” asked Greg, pleasantly, making his grip on Lock’s wiggling half-naked form even firmer. The adorably peachy bottom wobbled pleasantly in his lap and he took a moment to appreciate it.

Mycie blushed, though he was somewhat distracted by the appealing sight too.

“No, it was _my_ idea!” howled Lock, appalled that his brother should get the credit. “Mycie just finessed it, because he’s a control-freak.”

“You had the ratio of flour to water all wrong!” spluttered Mycroft. “It wouldn’t have fallen with the requisite splatter otherwise!”

“I’ll give you requisite splatter, you little…,” vowed John, darkly.

Both Holmeses looked puzzled.

“That doesn’t make sense, Uncle Johnny,” they chorused in unison.

“It sort of doesn’t, darl,” admitted Greg, “And if it does, it’s probably not appropriate for Little ears… But anyway, enough out of you two. Young lads over their Papa’s knee – and those waiting their turn - are in no position to be pedants.”

“Ow!”

Lock whimpered. The smack was a hard one, and centred perfectly across both cheeks. A taste of things to come.

“Now, where was I?” mused Papa, “Oh, yeah. Avenging all the naughtiness of the past hour, including the ruddy booby-trapped kitchen.”

“Then it’s my turn!” piped up John, determined not to miss out.

“Yeah, seems fair. Settle down, Lock. Me first, then your poor Uncle.”

Greg started as he meant to go on, trying not to look over at slop-sodden John for fear of becoming hysterical.

Lockie wailed in dismay has his bare bottom was soundly walloped. He caught John’s eye, and found nothing but grim satisfaction. Not a hint of sympathy. Which was just rude, frankly. However, he could feel the sympathy (and the dread) radiating from the corner of the room and it was as reassuring as always.

“Sorry yet?” checked Papa, sensing wandering thoughts.

“Umm… Ouch! Probably not very much,” said Lock, with the automatic honesty a spanking always created, and which he found so profoundly annoying.

“Ah, shame. Maybe I’m not making my point.”

“Ow! No, I’ve changed my mind. I am! I am! Ooh, stop, Papa, you’re worse than the Krampus!”

When Papa was satisfied with the exact shade of deep pink he’d imprinted on the perfect flesh, he released a rather sniffly Lock and gave him a comforting peck and a cuddle.

Just when Lock thought he might have gotten away with the second part of his promised comeuppance, he was presented to Uncle Johnny, yipping as Papa encouraged him across the room with little pats to his hot bottom.

“Ooh, no, not John!”

“Nope,” said John. “Your furious fake Uncle, who is every bit as awful as Captain Watson, mate.”

John gladly grabbed the mewling lad and pulled him over his very gloopy trousers.

“Ewww! Disgusting, it’s all cold and yucky!” complained Lock, as the horrible mess squished into his tummy.

“Yeah, isn’t it?! Try it down the back of your neck!”

“Ouch! It’s a horrid jumper anyway! Oooow!”

While Lock hollered over John’s sticky lap, Mycie was dragged over to Papa. The two Holmes boys were to be punished in unison. It had been rather a long time since that had happened and there was a certain satisfaction in it for all concerned. Though the brothers would not be caught admitting it. Not until much later, when they had grown up a bit.

“Mycie, your turn. Keep still, now,” warned Greg. “You know better than to say scary things to your baby brother, and to say cheeky things to me, and to…lay silly traps for people.”

“But Papa! I didn’t mean to… Don’t take my undies down, not in front of Lock, and Uncle Johnny too!”

Such protests were pleasing to say and to hear, as evidenced by the hard-ons all four grown men were struggling to conceal for the time being. For the sake of verisimilitude and personal pride.

“Especially in front of Uncle Johnny,” called John, spanking merrily away at Lock’s reddening bum. “Uncle Johnny’s bloody livid!”

“No fussing,” admonished Greg, yanking Mycroft’s white briefs down. His large cock sprang up to meet him and he tore himself away from it with the utmost reluctance. This was a waiting game as much as a power game, of course.

“You’re never too big for a walloping over Papa’s knee. And I dunno why you insist on wearing these under your pjs. Just pointless for a naughty boy like you.”

“Humph!” said Mycie, sound very Lock-like and for once unable to think of an appropriate comeback as he was pulled forwards and bent over.

His breath was very soon taken away by the resounding smack to his backside. The sting built terribly until he couldn’t keep on top of it for trying.

He always did try to be stoic, Big or Little. But Papa was adamant that he’d hear some noise for his troubles. He got his wish embarrassingly quickly.

“Oooh! I’m – oof – sorry! I won’t – ouch! - scare Lockie again. Oh, Papa, too hard, that smarts!”

“Hush. Bit more apologising from you, m’lad,” said Greg, gruffly, doing his best not to overstimulate the very hard cock rubbing against his thigh.

“Ow! Sorry, I was cheeky to you, Papa! Truly! I don't mind if you're unspecific sometimes!” piped Mycroft, gamely.

Greg slowed his hand, judging the soreness to be about right. 

He swiftly helped the lanky Holmes to his feet, gave him a kiss and a cuddle, wiping the faintest suspicion of salt-water from the corner of his eyes.

“Aw, love. Just like your brother after a spanked bum, all floppy and sweet. But you’ve one more to go.” Mycie ducked his head. “Be a good boy while I see to the baby. Johnnyboy, one more for you.”

“Let’s have the big one, then,” said John, as Lock was extracted from his lap.

The younger Holmes caught John’s eye as he dragged himself up, rubbing his prick deliciously as he went.

He grinned a watery grin.

“Thank you, Uncle Johnny,” he said, with more than a hint of flirtation. “I’ll buy you another Mustard Horror if you want.”

John snorted and planted a kiss on him.

“Too right,” he said with a wink, and a filthy lick of the lips at the sight of his lover’s very grown-up erection. Lock sloped off to Papa, wiggling his sore bum as he went.

When Mycroft took his place, cheeks burning at both ends, he felt rather more Big than Little. Always more embarrassing being spanked by John, even in role. Even at this advanced stage of their relationship.

As if reading his mind, John said, “Let it go, you. You’re only a lad getting sorted out. No need for you to think anything but ‘sorry Uncle Johnny’. See if I can take your mind off _that_ thing.”

Mycroft coughed and adjusted himself so that his cock was trapped between John’s thighs.

“Mm-hm. Sorry, Uncle Johnny. Ow! No, really… Ow, Lock’s right, you’re awful!”

Mycie buried his face in his arms and grimaced as John’s sturdy palm took him to task. He let the remnants of adulthood fall away and reinhabited his younger self, so that he could almost believe he was at least a foot shorter. Though he was never in this sort of trouble as a boy, he felt the same kind of vulnerability, the same kind of awkward need to prove himself exceptional - to impress. But he wasn’t being impressive. His backside throbbed horrendously, he was naughty, and he’d been rotten to Lockie, and he was horrified to realise he was about to cry. With a hard-on. Most odd.

“Please let me up!”

“Just a mo. Not quite… There.”

Mycroft yowled at the final hard whack and finally relaxed completely.

John patted him fondly.

“OK, finished. Hey, you all right? Go off on a little trip there?”

A red-faced and tear-stained but otherwise rather blissful-looking Mycroft sat up with a wince.

“Erm. Yes, I… Yes. I’m back now. Ouch, Uncle Johnny.” He rubbed at his bottom sheepishly.

“Learned your lesson, have you?” John grinned, making little pretence at his disciplinarian role in the face of such sweetness.

“I feel sure I have for the time being. Thank you,” husked Mycroft, snorting slightly at his own discombobulation.

John grabbed him, because it was kind of hard not to grab a Mycie with his defences down.

Lock was being snuggled into Greg’s chest, where he was surreptitiously nuzzling at his nipples, attempting to stimulate him into losing control. But Papa was made of sterner stuff than that.

“Oi, oi, naughty baby. Go kiss and make up with your big brother.”

The Holmes boys, still naked from the waist down, their top halves covered in rapidly drying flour paste, were pushed together and met in the middle of the room. They fell into each other’s arms with pseudo-shyness. Their arms wrapped around each other and they kissed, tentatively, even innocently at first. But then not so innocently. Tongues snuck into each other’s mouths in a passion, hands wandered, and they frotted together, gasping at the contact of their bare pricks.

“Oh, Lockie…”

“Ooh, Mycie…”

The boys had been looking forward to the making up part of the scene. But they were disappointed.

“Yeah, and that’s enough of that,” said Papa, separating them reluctantly. It wasn’t easy being the authoritarian sometimes.

“But…!” squeaked John. He had been looking forward to watching a bit of fraternal affection.  

Greg glared at him and he rolled his eyes. Bloody power mad Lestrade.

“All of you go and change into something clean, then you two can clear that mess up, properly,” ordered Papa to two very chastened and outraged boys, overlooked by one disgruntled Uncle. “And then you can sit and do the stupid knitting thing until supper,” he decreed, dragging out a tangled bundle of wool and needles, and patterns from the coffee table drawer. God alone only knew why a holiday cottage came loaded with such random crap, but it was useful as a tedious punishment for overactive troublemakers.

“What?!” screeched Lock. “Cleaning?!”

“Did you say _sit_?” said a disbelieving Mycie. “I shan’t be sitting until at least tomorrow.”

“Stupid cleaning! Boring knitting thing!”

“Yeah, well,” shrugged Greg. “Me and John have footie to watch, once he resembles a human rather than the Abominable Snowman. Football’s even more boring, isn’t it? Or perhaps you’d like to stay for a second round over my knee?”

Papa had a point.

“Football is dreadfully boring, isn’t it?” agreed Lock, making himself scarce.       

Mycroft nodded and hastily followed.

“Pure tedium.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely to hear your thoughts below, my dearest ones. Mwah. xxx


	5. The Middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little turn of the tables. The game changes a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's nickname shamelessly inspired by (aka nicked off) RemyRemedial and her glorious universe. 
> 
> Dedicated to the ever-patient LadyGlinda, who is a fabulous friend. And to all you who've waited patiently or otherwise, while I deal with RL. xxx

> Once they’d changed into clean casual clothes, mourning the loss of their comfy pyjamas, the Holmes brothers sloped off to the kitchen, pouting all the way. They surveyed the sincerely impressive mess they’d made of the place. It became evident from their deductions that John had slipped in the flour gloop several times, which only served to spread it all over the place.

“John, I mean, Uncle Johnny’s responsible for at least half of this! Look, his handprints are all over the wall! No balance at all,” muttered Lock.

Mycie shook his head in despair.

“And he seems to have wiped himself down with every teatowel and dishcloth in the place. There’s nothing for it. We’ll have to mop.”

“Mop indeed! I won’t mop. Holmeses don’t mop!”

“Not if someone else may be induced to do it. But Papa says.”

Lock’s eyes swiftly turned from outraged to sly.

“Mycie…”

Mycroft knew that tone all too well.

“Yes, little brother?”

Sherlock sidled up.

“We could always… I mean, we haven’t made up properly yet, have we? Shall we do that instead?”

Mycie gulped. Those eyes. Those pouting baby lips.

“Whatever do you mean?”

Sherlock grinned and slipped his hand to somewhere Papa would not approve.

“Like this.”

Mycroft gasped in faux-shock.

“Oh! Well… That would be nice. But Papa said no touching. We mustn’t get caught. I don’t want another spanking.”

Lock withdrew his hand is disgust.

“Won’t get caught! What Papa doesn’t know what hurt him. Don’t be an infant. We don’t have to do everything Papa says!”

“I’m not an infant, I’m the eldest!”

“You are,” said Lock, pouting. “And you also haven’t made it up to me yet.”

“Hm. That is an oversight. Perhaps I could…”

Mycroft swept his brother into a cuddle, letting his hands stray to naughty places. Lock’s resultant squeak delighted him.

“Oooh, yes please!”

“But what about the mess?” sighed Mycie, with a wicked smirk.

“I’ll mop you up afterwards,” grinned Lock. “Or you can…mix it in with the rest of the gloop, and then we’ll clean it all at once. Or…you could just lick it up…”

Mycroft moved in for a lazy kiss.

“That does sound sensible,” he hummed, working his way down his brother’s long, pale neck.

“Time-saving. Get on with it, Mycie!”

***

Just as little Holmes’s were misbehaving themselves, John emerged back in the living room.

Greg regarded his partner’s pristine appearance with approval, no trace of gloop anywhere to be seen.

“You look a bit more human now, love,” he said.

John flopped onto the sofa.

“Not sure I can take much more of this, to be honest.”

“Oh come on,” scoffed Greg, “it can’t be more work than Rosie.” But even as he said it, he knew better.

“My Rose is an angel compared to these two!”

“Yeah. Anyone would be compared to these two, really.”

“I’m shattered! And my nerves are shot – I’m flinching every time I open a door!”

“We’ll have to be on watch for any more shenanigans.”

John turned an indignant glare upon him.

“What do you mean ‘we’? Oh, mate, honestly, can’t you tell them to pack it in? They’ve had their fun.”

Greg considered it. But couldn’t bring himself to picture the disappointed faces. Holmes puppy eyes. Absolutely, fatally heartbreaking.

“Nah, it’s their holiday too. They’re just having a little rest from themselves, aren’t they? Kind of adorable, really, seeing them muck about like kids. When does Mycie ever let himself go like this? And he won’t unless Lock does too.”

“Yeah, fair enough,” sighed John. “ _They’re_ having fun anyway. I’m losing jumpers and patience all over the place…” He cocked his head to the side. “Hang on. Gone a bit quiet in there, hasn’t it?”

Indeed it had. A certain sign of Goings On.

Greg ran his hand through his hair.

“Oh, blimey. Go and check, love.”

“Me?!” said John, “Bossy git. You’re not my bloody Papa.”

Greg grinned.

“Aren’t I? Not what you were saying in bed earlier…”

John snorted.

“Don’t push it.”

“Weren’t saying that either…,” chuckled the infuriating Lestrade.

“All right, I’ll go! Spare me the crap jokes. Bloody hell. An Uncle’s work is never done, is it? Bloody deadbeat Papa…”

“Give over! Even the most diligent Papa needs his bit of footie and a break from the little menaces.”

Greg kicked back and put the telly on. Subject closed.

John rolled his eyes and went in search of whatever bloody nuisance was now happening behind the kitchen door.

He nudged the door open swiftly and stepped back, fully expecting another faceful of something nasty. What he got, however, was an eyeful of something very nice indeed.

Two semi-naked Holmes brothers going at each other on the kitchen table. Lock was sitting up, head thrown back, leaning on his hands, with a very enthusiastic Mycroft kneeling between his legs. Mycroft’s auburn head bobbed up and down in his brother’s lap, and one hand worked beneath himself. Slurping noises met John’s ears. Both were in raptures of pleasure. Both were moaning low in their throats. Both were utterly oblivious to being intruded upon.

“Oi oi, what’s all this then?” teased Uncle Johnny.

Two heads looked round, instinctively pleased to see John in moments of sportiveness. And then both remembered the correct reaction, and sprang apart guiltily.

“Um… Nothing!” said Mycie, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Lockie covered his rather uncoverable hard-on behind his hands, eyes fluttering slightly as his palms made contact with his over-sensitive, slick flesh.

“Nothing! Mycie was just checking something.”

“And it’s fine. All fine and normal,” said Mycie, airily, like a physician. He tucked his own telltale evidence back into his pants.

John tutted and walked slowly towards them.

“Just checking, eh? Something wrong down there, then?”

Lock shook his head and bit his lip.

“No. It was just a bit…swollen.”

“And Myc was just…sucking it better?”

“Don’t tell Papa, Uncle Johnny!” begged Mycie, fearful for his already sore behind.

“Hm. Might have to. I’m not supposed to encourage naughty touching, am I? But…”

“But?”

“Well… Only natural, two healthy lads like you.”

They beamed at him.

“We knew you’d understand,” said Mycroft, diving back to his work.

“Woah, not so fast. Tell you what… I’ll let you finish checking that - and maybe Lockie can return the favour and do a thorough check for you - but only if we can come to some little arrangement.”

Lock clapped his hands in glee. He loved a thickening plot.

“Oooh, an arrangement!”

Mycie eyed their naughty Uncle suspiciously.

“What are your terms?”

John grinned.                                      

“Oh, Mycie. My terms couldn’t be simpler.”

‘A holiday from themselves’, Greg had said. Sounded (and looked) pretty sweet from where John was standing.

***

“Anyone coming back any time this weekend?!”

Greg was getting impatient. Yes, he wanted to watch the match in peace, but it wasn’t nice to leave Papa all alone for too long.

“If you don’t get your bums in here, I’ll come and get you and then there’ll be trouble. A-bloody-gain.”

He winced at the thought of the Spanker’s Tendonitis this weekend was sure to bring on.

Before too long he heard a scramble of limbs and unnerving hushed giggling. All three of his ridiculous partners fell into the room, shushing and slapping each other. Greg rolled his eyes.

“Right, you rotten lot. Boys, sit at the table to do your lovely craft activities… What have you been up to in there?”

“Nothin’,” husked Lock, maintaining defiant eye-contact.

Greg frowned.

“Hmm. You’re looking a bit flushed, m’boy. Bit relaxed.”

Lock shrugged defiantly. “So?”

"So it’s not beyond my deductive skills to know bloody well it’s because your brother couldn’t keep his mitts off you. Flirt him into an apology, did you?"

Mycie had the grace to blush.

Lockie didn’t. Anyway, Papa wasn’t cross. If anything, he seemed to be beaming with knowing pride.

“Yes, Papa. Of course I did! I’m the best at flirting Mycie into things.”

Mycie cleared his throat guiltily.

"Well... we were just making up, because of the row, because you don't like us arguing, do you? It was just a, erm, special kiss.”

Greg snorted and ruffled his youngest’s wild hair.

“That’s my baby boy. Got it all kissed better, did you?”

Lock preened and wiggled as Papa petted him for being so very very clever.

Throughout this exchange, John looked bored and concentrated on trying to stand on his toes for as long as possible. Greg gave him a funny look and rolled his eyes. Just Watson being a weirdo. He turned his attention back to Mycroft and tickled him under the chin.

“Don’t look so ruffled, lovely Mycie. I’m too unsurprised to be annoyed. And you’re right, I like it when my lads are nice to each other – just don’t take liberties. Personally, I blame Uncle Johnny. Johnnyboy? You were supposed to be stopping any more naughtiness. I’ll overlook it this once. We’ve got the FA Cup semi-final to watch. Get comfy, it’s kick-off in three minutes.

But rather than flop gratefully onto the sofa with a beer in hand, John scowled and kicked the floor.

“Not.”

The Holmeses exchanged smirks. Greg looked puzzled and checked his watch.

“Yeah, it is. 4.30.”

John rolled his eyes in an exaggerated long-suffering sort of way.

“Not ‘not kick-off’, silly. Not Uncle Johnny!”

Greg could make nothing of this. What could John mean? It couldn’t be the thing he really didn’t want to think about… Because that would be…some kind of living nightmare, but…

“Eh? Not Uncle Johnny? What are you talking about… Oh no. No, please don’t tell me… Please, John, no…”

“I’m John-John!” declared the lad himself in heartfelt triumph. He span in a little circle as he talked, letting his arms propel him like a helicopter.

“Don’t like being big, it’s rubbish! Wuuuu-bbish. So I’m playing with the other boys now. They said I could! They said!”

Greg groaned aloud whilst the Holmes boys jumped for joy.

“Surprise!” yelled Lock, with deafening gusto. “John-John’s going to have lots of fun with us ALL DAY, Papa. He’s our middle brother, isn’t he, Mycie?”

Mycie nodded solemnly.

“Yes. He’s ours now, Papa.”

A shudder ran up Greg’s spine.

“Oh. Fuck.”

“I’m John Hamish Holmes and I’m Middle,” sang John, going for a little happy skip round the room.

Lock collapsed into giggles and took up the spinning in a circle from where his new brother had left off.

“That sounds nice! Hamish Holmes, John-John Hamish Holmes, Middle Holmes!”

Greg dropped to his knees.

“No, don’t do this to me…,” he begged, rapidly losing the will to live.

Mycie looked up at the ceiling, as if examining it for clues, all the while his noisy brothers and his despairing Papa decided to make spectacles of themselves. Why was everyone so dramatic in this family?

“You can’t, John!” continued Greg. “I need a wingman here! You rotten turncoat!”

Little John-John stopped short and cast a heartbreaking look of absolute, doe-eyed pathos at him. His hazel pupils glistened piteously. His lower lip pouted and his teeth worried at it.

“But… But don’t you love me too, Papa?”

_Eat your heart out, lads. John-John knows a thing or two about devastating manipulation._

He held still and waited for Greg to cave.

Greg puffed out a breath of defeat. It was useless to resist.

“Eh, eh, lad. Come here. Course I do.” He gathered his newest charge into a hug, and into his ear whispered, “Sneaky sod... Decided to strike yourself a bargain, did you? A blind eye to the blatant blowjob and get a free pass to irresponsible Littledom?”

John stepped away with a toothy grin.

"Yep. Smart John-John," he said, tapping his chest with his thumb.

Greg had his doubts about that.

"Reckon, do you? Might be out of your depth as much as me, boyo… Right, look here lads, I'm a reasonable bloke. But I am only one bloke. Now, I can't very well separate you cos I've only got one pair of hands…"

"Separate us?!" screeched Lock in horror.

Mycie balked and grabbed his brother as though fearful that any minute he’d be snatched away.

"You wouldn't!"

John stood in front of them like a growling terrier.

"You couldn't!"

Greg pretended not to find it all sickeningly endearing.

"Hey, calm it down. I both wouldn't and couldn't. But I really want to watch the Cup game. Any chance you could strike a little truce, for 90 mins, plus extra time? Good behaviour all round. Then you can go back to driving me up the wall and giving me a ruddy headache. Deal?"

The three brothers frowned and huddled together, consulting in fervent whispers.

Sherlock was the self-appointed spokesman for the group.

"Kay, Papa."

Mycroft tutted.

"You're supposed to negotiate! What do we get in return?"

"To sit down at some point in the near future?" drawled Greg without missing a beat.

"Oh."

John-John hit upon a stroke of genius. He felt far cleverer as a Holmes boy now.

"I know! How abouts Papa gets to watch football in peace but Lockie and Mycie don't have to do knitting, and we can all go off and play together upstairs? Nicely. Not noisy games. Quiet ones to help Papa's head," he said, breathing fast at his own brilliance.

Greg tilted his head to one side. Upstairs. Any excuse. He didn’t want to fall completely behind in the nookie stakes. "You can play. But quietly. And no rude games either."

Lock stamped his foot.

"Aw!"

"No, Lock. I don't want to stumble in on a game of doctors and nurses. Not without me there to, er, supervise it."

"It'll be a while before Lockie can go again anyway,” lied Mycroft.

Lock gasped at being thought so badly of.

"No, it won't! I can go any time! I mean, erm..."

He broke off at his biggest brother’s glare.

"Shush, Lock, just back away quietly," advised John-John.

"OK. Come on, race you!"

The pair sped off, jostling and shoving.

"Oi, no running on the stairs!” shouted Greg, feeling a few more grey hairs sprout into existence. “Mycie, I'm trusting you to be my big boy and keep an eye on those two."

Mycroft snorted gently and winked cheekily.

"Another bargain, Papa?"

Greg leaned in for a peck on the lips.

"Yep. You look after that pair and you tell me if things get too silly, and then you can choose the film later, right? And maybe when you’re older, you’ll get an even nicer reward…"

Mycroft grabbed his partner and kissed him for real. Filthy and passionate. It rather took Greg’s breath away.

"Yes, dear. All right. I do like being your biggest boy, you know...."

"Ooh, I know how you do, doll."

They grinned at each other, until Mycroft sauntered off to see what silliness was afoot, and Greg stuck the telly on to enjoy being a grown-up over the legal drinking age.

 ***

While Greg wilfully hoped for the best, his boys were debating exactly what kind of fun to have together.

“I want to do dinos!” yelled John-John. He was enjoying getting into his stride. It was nice being able to want things and shout and stomp around without waking anyone younger up or being told off by his inner disapproving self-critic. Being Little ruled. “Dinos! Dinos!” he chanted.

Mycie and Lock winced at the sound. John-John had a real pair of lungs on him.

“Too loud!” they complained. Even Lock had his limits, at least, when it came to other people’s noise.

Mycie attempted to quell the new John-John beast.

“Being Little isn’t just pretend, or about who can be the most ghastly brat, you know. Don’t say a word, Lock… It’s an authentic state of mind. Just let yourself sink into a place that’s really you, and…”

John made a ‘durrr’ noise and stuck out his tongue. “Uh, yeah, I get it. That’s what I _am_ doing! Don’t be all stuck up about it! And don’t tell me what to do, you’re not Papa!”

“Rude. Only checking. You’ve never been Little before, and…”

Mycie left the rest of the sentence ‘I think you’re getting worryingly carried away’ tactfully unsaid.

Lock giggled and covered his mouth.

“John’s always Li –“

John-John gasped at the intended crack about his stature, and shoved his awful new baby brother.

“Watch it, lanky!”

Lock laughed and dodged.

“What?! I didn’t mean anything by it!”

They chased each other round the maypole that was Mycie, trying to scratch or pinch each other in revenge.

“Oh, do stop being pathetic! John-John, you’re being very immature…,” he chided, as though he’d forgotten the point of any of this.

John stopped dead so that Lock crashed into him and fell into a squawking heap.

He stood his ground, glaring at his big brother with hands on hips, chin set into a dogged square.

“If you two can be Little, so can I.”

Mycie sighed in defeat. John-John was stubborn and there was no use trying to stop him from doing anything.

“All right, then. Forget I spoke.”

“I will. Now stop being annoying and play. I’m a dinosaur! Raaaaargh! T-Rex mega smashy smashy!”

Holmeses senior and junior watched as their middle brother stomped off, doing tiny dino claws and big dino feet.

Mycie leaned in conspiratorially.

“I think this might have been a bad idea, Lock.”

Lock nodded happily.

“Yes, it definitely is a _fantastically_ bad idea! I’m a velociraptor! Eeeeeerrrrgh!”

He raced off too, leaving Mycroft grumbling.

“Ridiculous. Dinosaurs would not screech like silly boys.”

“Humph, what would they sound like then?” scoffed the velociraptor, ducking behind a wardrobe to conceal itself from its prey whilst the Obvious T-Rex made itself conscpicuous. “What kind of stupid vegetarian dinosaur are you being?”

“You couldn’t pay me to be a dinosaur,” said Mycie with dignity. “I am a sabre toothed tiger. Ironically known as the genus Smilodon.”

“Smileydon? You’ve made that up,” accused the T-Rex.

Mycie sniffed haughtily.

“Haven’t. I’m from the Pleistocene era. More highly evolved than you two terrible lizards, and a lot more attractive.”

“Plasticine era?!” giggled Lock, wilfully misunderstanding. “Are you like one of the animated Wallace and Gromit characters? A big smug plasticine pussy...cat...”

Mycroft ignored his most awful of awful brothers.

“You’re simply envious, you vile velociraptor. See how I stalk. Observe my stealthy glide.”

“Oooh.”

“Slinky.”

The creature settled dangerously onto its haunches, preparing to pounce and prove his worth.

“I am subtle. I am sleek. I am death on silent paws.”

“EEEK!”

And indeed, his brothers could see that he was.

When they had finished running each other ragged through the bedrooms and hallway, ignoring the occasional “Oi!” being shouted at the from behind the living room door, the three mischief-making Muskateers grew bored.

“Now what?” huffed Lock, the most bored of all. He fell onto the bed in the guest room.

John-John had another masterstroke of Holmesian genius.

“Dares,” he declared with elaborate glee.

Lock was impressed.

“Ooooh!”

Mycie wasn’t.

“Noooo!”

But the Middle Brother was adamant.

“Yes! Dares. I’ll do one first.” He quivered from head to toe. It was terribly exciting. “Dare me something!”

“OK, John-John,” said Lock, in his element. How lovely to just watch John misbehaving without having to lift a finger to help or encourage. He’d known what his dare was almost as soon as the word ‘dare’ had been uttered. But he’d need to build his new brother up to it. So he chose something easy to start with.

“I dare you…to go on a Raid.”

John-John grinned. That was a great dare.

"A Raid? What should I raid?"

"The kitchen. Biscuits,” declared Mycie, the known sugar-fiend.

"The bathroom. Chemicals," smirked Lockie, the mad scientist.

But John-John didn’t fancy either.

"Nah, I know. Papa’s bedroom. You two hide here, just in case he comes looking for us. I’m going in, boys."

John dove to the ground and crawled away, intent on his prize.

The Holmes brothers exchanged adoring grins. John off the leash of adulthood was an utter menace.

He soon returned, with a very self-satisfied grin, and his jumper bulging with contraband.

Lock bounced around him.

“Whatcha get, John-John? What? What?!”

John let his stash fall to the ground.

“Underpants?!” exclaimed Mycie, puzzled.

“All of Papa’s underpants. He only bought two pairs! Should have been more prepared, like what I was!”

“There’s no need for sloppy grammar, John-John. Littleness is no excuse for tortured syntactical construction.”

“Posh.”

“What else you get, John-John?”

“Well, once I took the pants, it seemed silly to just leave everything else.”

They could see that the small pile of clothes did in fact represent everything in Greg’s minimal suitcase.

“What shall we do with them?" asked Lock, a bit disappointed. "Hold them hostage? We could get treats for their safe return.”

“Nah. Not worth it,” said John-John, dismissively. He gathered up the pile and wandered to the window. “Just hide it. Um…there!”

To his brothers’ amazement, he opened the window and stuffed Greg’s things into the window box, packing them down firmly into the potting soil.

Mycie was appalled.

“That’s just mean, John-John. Papa’s clothes will get dirty!”       

But Middle Holmes wasn’t bothered.

“Dirty things wash,” he shrugged. ”Like my mustard jumper that you ruined…”

“Yeah, Mycie, dirty things wash,” giggled Lock, delighted with his new brother's amoral attitude.

Mycie frowned.

“Hmm, you’d never wash at all given half the chance to avoid it."

“I would! I like bathtime.”

“You never used to.” Mycroft recalled the time of genuine Lockie littleness. “You used to be terrified of water, like all fearsome pirates are of course. You only grew to like baths because I bought a certain rubber duck companion for your ablutions, and then there was no getting you out.”

Sherlock’s face fell.

“Duckward. Oh. I forgotted he wasn’t here, and now I’ve just ‘membered again. Sad Lock.”

He hung his head pathetically. Always best to play for sympathy. It was a fabulous distraction technique, and it took Mycie’s worrying mind off silly things like Papa’s dirty clothes and consequences.

John patted Sad Lock kindly.

“Poor baby brother. All the more reason to take revenge on Papa’s clothes. He should have packed properly and packed Duckward.”

“What else can we Raid?”

“Dunno. Let’s open ALL the drawers and cupboards and see.”

John threw himself round the room in a whirlwind of chaos, flinging open everything and anything that was capable of being flung open.

Lock undertook the methodical search while Mycie pretended to be too mature for curiosity.

“Look, John-John! Paints!” breathed Lock, in absolute awe. He pointed in the drawer under the bedstead. There inside was a set of water-based paints, brushes and thick paper, presumably left by a previous holidaymaking family.

“Pants?!” said Mycie, horrified in case a previous resident had left those and his advanced clean-up team had failed to dispose of them.

“Paints, deafie!”

Mycie peered closer, then his heart sank.

“Oh. Uh-oh.”

“It would be rude not to use them.”

John-John rummaged and pulled out all the lovely colours –sky blue, and Post Box red, and grass green…

“What shall we do with them, Lock?”

“Paint stuff, obviously.”

“Paint what, idiot!”

“Paint walls or…just stuff.”

“Got a better idea,” grinned John-John. “We could paint ourselves.”

Lock clapped his hands together. Mycie clapped his hands over his eyes.

“Ooh, pretty!” said Lock. “But even betterer idea! We could paint ourselves _and_ paint walls.”

“We really shouldn’t, you know.”

“Don’t be a bore, Mycroft Holmes!”

“I am not!”

“He is, isn’t he John-John? A total snoozerly borefest. Gathering information on us as we speak, just waiting for a chance to tell. Sucking up to Papa…”

“I am not, Lock! I only promised to be responsible…”

“Boring!”

John-John, ever in the middle, stepped in to be peacemaker.

“I don’t think Mycie’s a bore, Lock. But I do think he should paint with us. Don’t you want to at all…big brother mine?”

“Oh. Yes. I do. Erm, little brother.”

“But that’s me!” protested Lock, not liking having to share his nickname.

“No, you’re baby brother.”

“I am not a baby!”

“You’re mine and John-John’s baby brother, and you’re Papa’s Baby boy…”

“Hmph. Fine. Just jealous cos I'm Special. Stop being mean and help us do painting! First ourselves. Then we make this horrid cottage prettier.”

“I don't know. Papa will lose his deposit money if we - ”

“What’s the point of being Little if you’re going to worry about deposit money?” said John-John, reasonably. Some tiny voice niggled at his brain – an annoyingly grown-up voice which said there was probably a reason this was a bad idea. But it wasn’t Little John-John’s job to worry about what was and wasn’t a bad idea. He was just playing with his brothers, and wanted to impress them with his daring and creative smarts. From the admiring looks he was receiving, he could tell he was succeeding.

“Zackly, John-John. Who cares about stupid money? There’s paints and brushes and walls, and us. Smart middle brother. See, Mycie? John-John's a definite Holmes.”

"Am I, really? Cool!"

He was too cute to resist. Mycie grabbed him and kissed him on the nose.  He quickly calculated the costs of the clean-up operation, and deemed it worthwhile. If a hazmat team couldn’t handle washable paint, then the realm was in serious trouble.

"Yes, dear John-John, you are a definite Holmes. You have our talent for Needless Evil. Now, hand me a brush. I’m coming over all Michaelangelo."

***

Downstairs on the sofa, Gregory Lestrade, knackered single paternalist, was snoring up a storm. The Cup match had finished in an ignominious 2-0 loss for his beloved Gunners. The one bottle of beer he’d allowed himself was empty, and facilitating a very comfy afternoon snooze. He hadn’t really gotten a proper one earlier, and all the driving and shagging and spanking and generally Being Papa had taken their toll. So he remained blissfully oblivious to the Artistic Masterclass taking place upstairs.

***

Lock was severely awestruck by both of his bigger brothers.

"I like your purple bum print, John-John!"

"Thanks, Lock. Me too. But I actually think the orange blobby bits you did with your Thing are the best."

They surveyed each other’s daubed skin, delighted to realise there was barely a scrap of natural fleshtone on display. From head to toe, they were an expressionistic riot of colour. Like a 1980s German techno collective.

"It's all rather harmonious, in a clashing, symphonic kind of way,” agreed Mycie, squinting at the walls and at his brothers’ decorated bodies. “I do think the green hand-printed accents set it all off rather nicely. Very Post-Impressionistic. Lovely work, my dears."

“Your ceiling is beautiful, Mycie,” said Lock, magnanimously. “I like the way you’ve incorporated the light fitting into the scheme.”

He had no illusions about who the Artist of the family was. Being the Musician himself, he didn’t mind admitting that big brother was a dab hand with a paint brush.

Mycie beamed, though with customary modesty.

“Thank you. It’s not quite the Sistine Chapel, but it will suffice.”

Lock giggled as he turned his head up and back to view the piece.

"You’ve done naked boys frolicking in the sea again. That’s rude!”

“It’s not rude. It’s erotic,” corrected the elder Holmes.

“What’s erotic, Mycie?”

“It’s when naked boys aren’t rude, but very tasteful and extremely Meaningful.”

Lock and John-John nodded their understanding. Biggest brother knew best on things like this.

“Good,” said Lock, satisfied at the prettiness of the freshly DIY-ed bedroom. “Now painting's done... Next dare."

Mycie groaned and wiped some pink paint from his hair.

"Oh, not another one... Can’t we go and see Papa now? His football is bound to have finished. Though it seems to go on forever."

“Not yet! One more dare. And I know what it is: Commando Run, John-John! In the garden.”

Mycroft screwed his face up in misgiving.

“It’s very muddy and quite chilly out there, Lock. You can’t ask him to do that.”

“I’m not scared of chilly mud, Myc!" said John-John, full of bold indignation.

Lock was proud of him.

"See? John-John's not scared of anything!"

"Nuh,” sniffed the middle Holmes. “I dun loads of it when I was bein’ a soldja when I was big. And when I do rugby. I like mud!”

Mycroft still looked concerned about the protocols of the thing.

“But you’ve already had to change clothes…”

Lock giggled behind his hand.

“Who said anything about clothes?! He can go as he is. Wearing paint clothes. It’s camouflage!”

"Purple isn’t a camouflage colour, how absurd! Anyway, it's just started raining..."

“Ha! Yeah! It'll wash off the paint. And the mud,” said John, bouncing already.

“Oh, really, you two! Any excuse at all to exhibit your wares... Both so naughty.”

“It’s not naughty, Mycie,” said Lock, smugly. “It’s Performance Art. Very tasteful and extremely Meaningful. Nudey Commando! Plleeeease. Dares you, John-John. It’ll be funny. And I like looking at you all bare. Mycie does too, don’t you, Mycie?”

“I confess I do. Our John-John is delicious.”

To prove their devotion to their middle brother’s naked form, Holmes major and minor surrounded him in a pincer movement, one in front, one behind. They held him and petted him, nuzzling into his paint-sticky hair, smearing themselves with purple paint so that it mingled into an odd greeny-brown colour over all of them. They whispered all the lovely-feeling rewards they’d bestow upon him if he played the Commando hero for their pleasure.

The sensation of skin on skin on skin was blissful, and John-John felt a bit funny down there. He rubbed himself against Mycie’s leg and it felt sort of better and sort of worse. Then he rubbed back on Lock, and that felt nice too.

“Oh, well, if you like looking… And you’ll give me a hero’s welcome after… Nudey Commando is GO!”

He wiggled free and raced down the stairs to the back door.

***

A few moments later, Greg woke up with a start. Was that a door slamming? Where was he? Oh, yeah. In bloody Dorset, for no good reason he could remember. Alone. And somewhere in this benighted holiday cottage were three fully grown men all intent on making a ruddy disgrace of themselves… As that thought went across his brain, he caught sight of just such a disgrace.

A bare bum raced past the window. Greg knew that bare bum anywhere, even if it was painted purple for reasons he didn’t want to contemplate. It was one of three suspect bottoms. It was definitely not the youngest- not quite rotund and peachy enough. Nor was it the eldest’s pale and pert little sit upon. No. This more muscular, meaty backside belonged to the difficult middle child. 

Groaning all the way, he trudged to the back door and scoured the very wet and very sludgy back garden for what he knew was there. A naked, paint-smeared, muddy Commando, crawling through a herb bed, mud-stripes adorning his face, expression set and focused on getting from one side of the garden to the other without being seen. Inconvenient flowers and well-tended bushes had been barged over or pulled up to allow for smoother, muddier progress.

“John Hamish W… Holmes! Get your purple arse in here right this second!”

The Commando winced. He’d been rumbled by the enemy. He moved fasted, wiggling away from the base. Because surely the enemy wouldn’t give chase – not in this weather and only his socks. But he had underestimated his foe. Before he knew it, hostile forces were upon him, and he was being lifted by the upper arms from his squidgy mud bed and hauled back to HQ.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me hear your voices, gorgeous ones. I've missed you and I'm not dead yet. xxx


	6. Papa catches up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three boys get their comeuppance, all for one and one for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *clears throat* Erm...hello again, darlings. Don't hit me with bricks. Mea culpa - it's been too bloody long. Loveyouloveyou! x

“Nooo, Papa, I haven’t finished! They dared me!” John-John howled, to no avail. “I have to make it to the greenhouse. Just pretend you didn’t catch me…”

But Papa was not in the mood for negotiating, and slammed the backdoor behind them.

“You bloody tearaway, you’ve uprooted half the garden. And….why are you naked?! You’ll catch your death! And you’ve grazed your legs up a treat…”

John-John looked down at his scratched calves and shrugged.

“Oh yeah. Didn’t notice. Was being brave!”

Greg tutted and smacked the lad through the kitchen and up the stairs. Brave or not, John couldn’t help but squeak.

“Bathroom, this instant,” ordered Greg. “Where are your brothers?! You shouldn’t take Holmes dares, they’re always a shortcut to a hiding. If they told you to jump off a cliff, would you do it?!”

Greg was appalled at the clichés tumbling from his lips. He'd taken to his role with a little too much conviction, he was sure. But they'd bloody asked for it.

“YES! I would,” declared John, truthfully.

Greg knew he’d do the same. Not a leg to stand on. But Holmes lads could not be pandered to, and must be reined in at all costs.

“Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, get your backsides out here NOW,” he roared at the telltale giggling coming from behind the bedroom door. The culprits fell silent and still, so he barged in, dragging a sorry-looking mud warrior behind him.

When Greg saw the state of the newly-decorated room his jaw literally dropped. In fact, he freaked out.

“What. The. Actual. FU – “

“Don't say it!” interrupted Mycie, covering his delicate ears.

“How… The whole room?! The ceiling! You bloody vandals!”

Lockie waved airily.

“We’ll pay for it out of our pocket money, Papa.”

That was the trouble with having Littles who were much richer than you, thought Greg. Their pocket money was a month of his salary.

Mycie gasped suddenly in horror as he took in the full appearance of a rather disconcertingly irate Gregory.

“Oh, Papa, you  _are_ silly. Look!”

Greg looked down in irritable confusion, but his expression soon changed to one of dismay. He’d been in such a hurry to extract John from the garden he’d run outside in his socks. He was damp, yes. But worse than that, he’d trodden whatever mud hadn’t stuck to John into the carpet with his own feet. He was filthy. But then, so was everything else in this once-lovely cottage he now completely regretting hiring.

He ran his hands through his ever-greying hair and growled.

“I’m going to change,” he said, fixing his naughty charges with a gimlet eye. “And when I come back I want you all in the shower! And no laughing!”

John-John snorted behind his hand. Mycie bit his lip, thin mouth twitching upwards. Lockie guffawed in his face.

Greg scowled. He was rapidly becoming royally narked off at being on the outside of this little cabal of rotten menaces.

He went to rummage in the wardrobe for his second (and only remaining) holiday outfit. But…the wardrobe was empty.

His head span with the implications, and he stepped with slow deliberation back into the other room, where three very naughty boys were stifling giggles as they stripped each other (far too slowly and far too saucily for Papa’s liking at this exact moment).

“Where are my….,” Greg began, tilting his head at the three beautifully bare torsos in front of him. He shook himself back to earth and remembered he was annoyed. “Where are my spare clothes?! I had spares. Jeans. Jumper. Where?”

John-John whistled and looked at the painted ceiling as if trying to recall exactly when he might have seen them last.

“Erm...”

Mycie looked at the floor, frowning, as though expecting to suddenly provide answers.

“Ah.”

Lock simply snorted behind his hand.

“Whoopsie.”

“Tell me this instant!” shouted Greg, practically jumping into the air in frustration.

Sherlock winced and pointed.

“Windowbox, Papa.”

“Gosh,” hissed Mycroft. “Now we’re for it.”

John looked unutterably pleased with himself, and winked.

A frowning Greg went over to the window, opened it, and stared in disbelief at the soggy, soily ruination of his spare clothes, mashed into the planter and liberally doused with rain water.

He turned with barely-concealed outrage. 

“Which of you did this? Come on, out with it. Whose idea of a sick joke is this? Lockie Holmes. You. Confess.”

Lock stamped his foot and huffed. 

“Why do you  _always_ go straight to me?! Not fair! It was Middle Brother!”

John gasped in shock at being so swiftly ratted out.

“Lock, can’t you keep your flapping trap shut for five seconds?! You’re the worse accomplice ever!”

“I  _know_ ,” said Lock, rolling his eyes for all he was worth. “That’s why I’m not an accomplice, I’m the leader - and you’re  _useless_  at being an evil mastermind, John-John. You should just stick to obeying orders… Eeek!”

John pummelled into the infuriating Baby, knocking him off his lanky legs with a well-aimed rugby tackle. Limbs flew in all directions.

“Noooo! Mycie, help! John-John Red Mist, Red Mist! Do the Vulcan Nerve Pinch! Special Spy Poke! Kick his bum - anything!”

Greg waded in.

“Mycroft Holmes, you stay put! Knock it off, you two bloody urchins. Get up.”

He pulled them, still struggling, up by the hair.

“Eeeek!”

“Eeeyoow!”

The squalling pair glared at each other as Greg held them at arm's length. Mycroft winced as Baby Brother's beautiful curls were wrenched upwards, causing his eyes up turn upwards like an aggravated kitten. John's muddy mop squelched between Papa's fingers. Time for mature diplomacy - and possibly, a bit of grovelling.

“You may borrow something of mine, Papa,” offered Mycroft, politely, as though he had nothing at all to do with this nonsense. 

“You bet I will," grunted Greg, letting Lock and John-John go. "Now get in the shower, all of you. I'm giving you all a good hosing down. Then I want a bloody good explanation.”

All three traipsed to the bathroom, each receiving  hearty smack to their bare and painted backsides as they went.

“Never! I’ll never talk!” exclaimed John-John, riotously enjoying himself now. 

“Maybe not, but I’ll get some interesting noises out of you either way. Go!”

Greg planted an extra smack on that one. Cheekiest of the lot at the moment. 

They got into the bath and stood while Greg turned the water on, and then turned the temperature down just a notch. He stood on front of them and aimed the shower head.

"Coooollld!" screeched Lock, who hated Cold of all kinds.

"Isn't it?"

Chilly spray hit them in very uncomfortable places, and all three scowled and squealed as they scrubbed themselves. Mycie leant a helping hand to Lock (for the special underneath places), while Lock's hand slipped between John's bottom cheeks to help get the mud off. John thought Mycie's Thing needed a bit of extra detailing, but his hand was sprayed with a freezing cold blast.

"Oi, no fiddling with each other! Just wash yourselves. No treats until you've learned not to do Papa's head in." 

The shower was one of the least enjoyable they'd ever shared together. 

"Mean Papa...," muttered John, mutinously. 

"Silence! No talking until I say so. Get out. I'll dry you off. Then I'll put you in your pyjamas. Want to behave like kids, I'll treat you like kids," mumbled Greg, roughly towelling his increasingly subdued partners until their hair stood up at all angles. He had to admit, they were bloody adorable. Curse them.

He shoved them gently back to the bedroom and found their crinkled, discarded nightwear, insisting on dressing each of them. 

Mycroft blushed when he was told to lie on the bed to have his feet put into his trousers and wiggled to help get them up as quickly as possible. Lock simply lay back and let Papa do all the work. John-John put up a fight, jiggling and giggling, until Papa flipped him over and spanked him again, then forced his clothes on using some infernal restraining technique he'd learned in the Met.

“Enjoying yourself, pal?”

“Yep.”

“Good. Downstairs, all of you." 

They regrouped down in the living room - scene of Lock and Mycie's earlier disgrace, now to be the scene of John-John's comeuppance too. Not before time, in everyone's opinion. Including the lad himself. The lengths one had to go to for a bit of attention in this fucked up family... 

"Right," said Greg, turning to face the three of them, arranged in various attitudes from bored to nervous to just plain not listening. "Lock, stand up, I didn't say you could lounge about on the sofa!"

"Humph!" 

"Tell me what made you think it was a good idea to Banksy the bedroom?" 

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged baffled looks. Greg tutted. 

"Call yourselves cultured? What possessed you to paint every available surface of a cottage we don't actually own?!" 

"Extreme boredom brought about by ill-advised, non-consensual holidaying," said Sherlock, grandly.

"Frustrated creativity and aesthetic judgement," explained Mycroft, hoping he was getting his point across. 

"Nudey paintin's fun!" said John-John, bouncing on his toes as he remembered all the lovely colours and shapes they'd made.

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose in despair. 

"Fine, I can see I'd get more sense out of the ruddy furniture... No need to explain. Whose idea was it?"

"It was an act of collective responsibility," said Mycroft, swiftly, applying the traditional policy of the Cabinet. 

"It was an act of civil unrest," corrected Sherlock, now recognisably Un-Little.

"I done the purple bits wiv my bum!" grinned John-John. "And Lockie did the orange bits! Funny!"

Greg glared.

"Collective responsibility my arse... Or rather, your arses. Not sorry at all are you?" 

Lock snorted. "Nope."

"Not really, dear, no," drawled Mycroft, fascinated by what John-John would have to say for himself. He wasn't disappointed in his little brother. But he never was.

John-John smirked. "Nooo sorries. Notsorrynotsorry!" 

"Got it, thanks," grimaced Papa. "Well, you just get your Not Sorry bum over my knee and I'll see if I can't change your mind about that." 

“Make me!”

An aghast silence fell at this. 

“I beg your pardon, John Hamish?”

John Hamish faltered only for a moment. 

“Erm. Said make me. Going deaf or sumfin’…?”

The penny dropped for Greg. It was quite wonderful, really. John letting himself go like this.

“Oh, I see, that’s your game, sonnyboy. Fine. Can do. Don’t you worry about it. You’re Little. Papa will sort you out.”

John felt relieved. And safe. Greg got it. All this ridiculousness. The much-needed freedom of not caring about consequences. The need for a firm hand, which he never really had when he was a kid - and had never really needed, because John Watson was an overly responsible boy and always had been. ‘Man of the house’ from a young age. Always looking after his Mum, his sister, making sure the family was all right. The good son, good brother, good Dad. Good doctor, good soldier, good partner. Always completely self-disciplined. Never put a foot wrong.

Except for today - and all the exciting times with Sherlock on casework, and the lovely, risky, sexy games with his lovers – today especially, when he had let his hair down and sank into fantastic, liberating Littlespace.

“No!” he howled, stamping his feet repeatedly, putting even Lockie to shame. 

“Little fight you wanted?” chuckled Greg, approaching slowly, a smouldering look in his brown eyes.

John looked up through his sandy lashes and grinned. 

“Yeh. Fanks.”

Greg rolled his sleeves. 

“S’all right, boyo. Here we go then.”

The spell broke. John roared like a banshee and Greg grunted as a fully grown Watson lunged at him with all his considerable might and muscle. A sequence of deeply undignified wrestling ensued, watched in horror by two rather delicate Holmeses.

Mycroft tsked politely. 

“Oh, John-John, you’re really  _very_  naughty today. A surfeit of energy, that's his problem...”

Sherlock came to rest his head upon his brother's shoulder and sighed. 

“And Papa’s  _very_  mean today. But also  _very_  good.”

They smirked at each other as the battle raged before them. 

“Goodness me, really! There’s no need to behave like cavemen…”

John in a headlock.

Greg with a foot in his face.

“Although…is quite pretty." 

“Mm. Yes, I suppose it is. But quite loud.”

“Too loud! Stop fighting and get spanking already!" demanded Lock. Then, as a final  _coup de grâce_ , which he knew his big brother would be proud of. "You’re both being dreadfully  _common_!”

“Very lowbrow indeed, Lockie.”

John was now face down on the carpet, arms caught up behind him. Greg's knee set firmly into his lower back. Immobilised at last.

Greg looked up with a self-satisfied smile. “Fine. Whatever you say. Caught the rebel now, haven’t I?"

With impressive control (and hiding the wince that wanted to escape as his back twinged), Papa swiftly hoisted an unresisting John-John up, grateful for the way the lad helpfully and subtly let one of his feet drop to take his weight on the floor. In a weirdly balletic move, the naughty young man was finally hauled up and over a strong thigh. Greg prayed for his knees, feeling all 50 of his years creaking around under his patella. 

"Noooo, Papa, don't!" yelled John, as his pjs were lowered, in distinct imitation of a certain elder Holmes. 

Mycie blushed. He was certain he didn't sound so...desperate under similar circumstances. 

"Yoowwww!" 

John-John raged as he was 'sorted out' by a very determined palm. 

"No use shouting at me, Little John-John. Got to smack the naughty out of you." 

"Gre- OW, bloody hell, mate!" 

"Shh, you're slipping, me boy. Stay in your place, yeah?"

"Ooooookaaaayyyoooow!"

When he was finished, John-John was flushed red from top to tail, a sheen of sweat over his entire body. He hung limply, not even bothering to brace himself with his hands. He let Greg take his full weight. 

Lock regarded him fondly, upside down. John's usually neat hair was a bird's nest, and his fiery gold eyes were wide and watery. But his expression was serene.  

"Calmer now, sweetheart?" said Papa, helping him up and chucking him under the chin. 

John panted his rely in the affirmative, and he was allowed to recover himself huddled against a broad chest. 

Greg rocked him a bit, feeling that was the right thing to do at this point. He looked over at the adoring validation of his other lovers and felt a warm glow. 

But still... The Murals. They had to be paid for. Honour must serve.

"Right, you lot. Over the sofa, hands on the seat cushions. Johnny in the middle.”

“More?!” moaned John in dismay.

“Yes, more. That was for the windowbox and your nudey garden nonsense. This is for the impromptu decorating job upstairs.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah, that. These two lanky boys have already had a walloping - now unbelievably on their third of the day. You’re lagging, boy. But it’s not a competition. Got enough strength in me yet for another round. And you need a second dose. Easily led astray by Holmeses, you are.”

John snorted at the truth of that. 

“Don't worry, John-John," sniffed Lock, boldly. "Some people have no artistic sensibility."

Papa glared, lips turning upwards slightly on his reply.

“And some people have no bloody  _sense_!”

“And  _some_ people have too much pride  _and_ prejudice,” giggled Mycie, amusing only himself.

Greg gave him a withering look.

“Oi, enough of the bookworm gags, ta. Pants down and bend over the sofa before I send you all to ruddy borstal.”

Mycroft schooled his features against further chuckling. 

"Yes, Papa, as you say. Though I doubt any institution could hold us for long..." 

The 'boys' complied with instructions, and bent themselves over in a row, in age order.

Greg contemplated the pretty sight. One more effort, and then surely, surely, they'd have had enough. His hand had certainly had enough. It was stinging and beginning to swell from so much disciplinary effort. Ice pack needed. Who'd be a Papa to this lot, he wondered not for the first time. 

Still, he thought, there were other means of correction available to him. 

He slid his belt off. 

Lock whimpered at the sound and hid his face against his upper arm. Mycie bit his lip and closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. John braced his legs, and shook his head at himself for letting it get to this. Bare-arsed and smarting, and having a bloody good time. It was ridiculous.

The whistling and cracking of the belt still caught them by surprise, and one by one they yelped and hopped on their toes as the unforgiving leather thwacked into their bare flesh. 

Greg admired his work. Perfectly aligned stripes. Worth a bit more experimentation, while he was here. 

"Hang on, let me see if I can..." 

He could. All three howled at once. Mycroft caught the thuddiest blow from the bottom of the strap, John got the firm, flat middle, and Lock got the sting in the tail. 

"Yeah, thought I could. I have to admit, lads, I'm bloody good at this. Hand-eye coordination, control. Not bad for a middle-aged git. Hold still. One more each, then can we just go to bed? I'm knackered." 

"Ooof! Yes, dear!"

"Definitelyyyy!"

"Ouchie! I want cocoa first!"

"Fine, now come here and give us a cuddle, you daft sods." 

"Still Little," warned Lock.

"Whatever you like, love. Just give yer Papa a kiss, he needs one. Correction - he needs three." 

Kisses were exchanged. Soothing hugs and strokes given and received. Cocoa was made, and at long last bedtime was called for.

As he slid aching into bed, Greg was tempted to call time on the Little game. But it didn’t feel like his decision. And, if he was honest, he felt he owed them all a bit of unadulterated un-adult time. Because Lock really didn't want to come here, and Myc would be happier if Lock were happier, and John... No, John was basically fine. He just prayed for mercy and hoped they’d all be fed up of it by morning. Mostly because this whole debacle was doing no favours for his libido at all. He was knackered and still a bit grumpy, and he had a sore hand, and a stiff back. And yet what were holidays for?

"Don't suppose...," he began, nuzzling Lock's soft, sweet-smelling neck, "you fancy a special cuddle, baby...?"

"Nope. Sleepy. Should have thought of that earlier instead of thrashing me to oblivion," snorted Sherlock in his deep unchildish baritone, the sarcastic phrase 'you'll be lucky' evident in his subtext. He could abstain if it meant holding Lestrade in suspense for a while. Besides, he'd got off a fair few times already today. He calculated it was worth withholding for a massive tension-breaking orgy tomorrow. "And don't bother asking Mycroft or John for a go. I'll have the most outrageous tantrum imaginable and you'll regret it."

Greg almost sobbed in frustration. On top of everything else, it didn’t look like there was any chance of a good grown-up fuck for at least another 24 hours.  

But lying in bed being cuddled by a madman, he couldn't find it in himself to resent a moment of it.

“Can we go to the seaside tomorrow?” pleaded suddenly-Little-again Lock, sneaking his thumb into his mouth as he lay his head on Greg's furry chest.

“You're too good at this, you know that, don't you?" grumbled Greg, running his fingers through soft curls. Sherlock nodded happily. Greg sighed, knowing he was beaten. "Seaside, you reckon? It’s gonna be pissing it down, says on the forecast.”

“So? Want to see the sea. Want ice cream.”

Greg's thick eyebrows raised in surprise.

“In the rain? It’s not exactly high season…”

“S'posed to be a holiday. Your fault! Want holiday ice cream!”

John-John bounded in, face messy with toothpaste residue, eyelids drooping with telltale exhaustion. Greg was frankly surprised at his ability to keep in headspace so long. It was sort of impressive.

“Ice cream!”

Mycie followed him in, looking all neatly brushed and clean. “Ooh, where?!” he said, as though perhaps some had materialised in the bedroom.

Lock bounced up, thumb slopping out of his mouth. 

“At the seaside, Mycie! Tomorrow.”

John-John grinned and face-planted into bed behind Greg, all fidgety until he wrapped his arms around him, to reassure himself that his anchor was not going to suddenly disappear.

“'Morrow, mm-hm. N'night loveyou...Rainy ice cream, yumyumyum...,” he muttered, and drifted off, snuffling and humming contentedly.

Mycie frowned as he slipped in behind Baby Brother. 

“Oh. Rainy ice cream. That sounds...not very nice. Sherlock Holmes, stop wiggling, you're jostling the whole bed! Restrain him, Gregory, Papa, someone!”

Lockie wiggled and kicked his feet even more violently by way of riposte. 

“Promise. Tomorrow. Plllleeeeease?!”

Greg used the last of his strength and patience to grapple his youngest.

“Hm, if I get half a day’s good behaviour out of all three of you – I mean, let’s not shoot for the moon here, eh? – I’ll think about driving you to the bloody seaside for a wet ice cream and a miserable walk on the prom.”

“Hoorah!”

“I’m not going out in the rain on holiday," huffed Mycie, turning onto his back and closing his eyes in full Vampire Mode. "I can do that in London."

“You can bring your brolly, love,” yawned Greg, putting his hand gently over Lock's mouth to prevent further conversation, and pinning him with one leg until he went still.

Mycie reached out a hand to pat each of them affectionately. “Mm. I’ll think about it," he said, and promptly fell asleep like the Very Good Boy he was. "But we'll have to watch John-John. I don't think he's quite finished being naughty..."

Greg's eyes sprang open at the thought and he suppressed a shudder - it would be some time before he would be able to relax now. Gentle snores and nonsensical mumbles filled the air as his boys dozed. Why were they always such angels in their sleep, and such demons during daylight?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give me a shout if you're still here! x


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